


To Be A King Beside You

by bennygecko



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Blood and Violence, Drug Addiction, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Benny, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Courier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 84,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11710554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennygecko/pseuds/bennygecko
Summary: A courier takes two 9mm bullets to the forehead, and somehow, miraculously, survives. Eight days later, he wakes up, he seeks revenge, and he finds something else.





	1. Bad Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This work has been my pet project for well over a year and a half now, so I'm very, very excited to finally have it out in the open for everyone to read. I've poured a lot of time and heart into this, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Please take care to read the warnings and tags, as there is some potentially triggering content discussed and depicted throughout this work.
> 
> I'm over on tumblr at goodsprings, please feel free to message me with any questions, or just to say hi!

The first thing Eli is aware of when he returns to consciousness is the feel of his cheek pressed into the cold, hard dirt.

The tang of metal coats his tongue and his shirt feels warm and sticky, so he’s fairly certain he’s covered in blood, but whether the blood belongs to him or someone else, he can't be sure.

Given the option, he’d really prefer the latter.

His head is throbbing, his ears ringing, thoughts thick and heavy. He wracks his brain, desperately trying to remember how he got in this situation, but everything’s fuzzy and trying to remember sends pulsing sharp pains through his head. He doesn’t think he’s drunk or high, as he doesn’t feel that telltale sluggishness he usually feels, but God, does he feel like shit.

The fog in his head is too thick and everything just _hurts_ and he has no idea how extensive his injuries are, but he’s aching all over, nostrils filled with the stench of blood, and when he tries to move his hands and feet, he feels the stiff bindings of rope.

He realizes suddenly that he can hear a man’s voice, and then another in reply. Two men. They’re talking about something, loudly, but his ears are still ringing and he can’t make out what they’re saying.

Alright. So he’s tied up, possibly bleeding out in the dirt, and he doesn’t know where he is or how he got here. That’s… less than ideal.

Still. He’s been in worse situations before. Even injured, he’s confident he can take on a couple of guys. Finding a way to get rid of the ropes without drawing his captors’ attention is the preferable option, but he can improvise. He’s not worried.

He tries to test the bonds, see if he’d be able to work his hands out of them, but the knots are tight and the rope scrapes at his skin.

Breaking his thumbs is always an option. He might be able to try to shimmy his hands out of the ropes that way. It hadn’t exactly been pleasant the last time he’d done it, but desperate times and all that.

Christ, he'd really love to know how he got in this mess. The clouds in his head are still thick and oppressive, but he forces himself to push past the piercing headache and concentrate, to try to find some detail that might give him some clue as to what the hell happened here.

Okay. Think, man,  _think_. What’s the last thing he remembers?

He remembers…

Primm? Yeah, yeah, he remembers Primm.

And the Mojave Express. That’s it. He remembers that he'd been picking up another package for delivery at the outpost in Primm, and images and details start coming back to him, slowly. The warmth of the sun beating down on his neck and the sand whipping around his boots as he made his way into town. He remembers walking past a guard post, an NCR soldier telling him the city was off limits. Something going down in the city or whatever, he didn’t really care to listen.

The streets had been empty. He doesn’t remember seeing anyone on his way to the outpost, but he remembers the sound of his boots hitting the pavement and echoing off the deserted buildings. He visited the Primm outpost fairly often, so he knew the town well, and he recalls thinking that it seemed quieter than usual.

He’s certain he left town with the package in tow around noon. The money for this delivery was good, almost too good to be true, and he needed the caps, so he had planned on making a straight shot for Vegas, no stops.

Obviously, that hadn’t worked out like he’d hoped.

And suddenly it hits him.

Goodsprings.

He remembers thinking that he was close to Goodsprings. That had been right around sunset. He doesn’t dare open his eyes to check, but he doesn’t see any light filtering through his lids, so it's a safe bet to assume that it’s dark out. It’s likely that whoever ambushed him had sprung the trap not too far from the town.

The ringing in his ears has subsided slightly and he can hear the two men arguing a little more clearly now. One of them says something about digging, and from the tone of his voice, he sounds like he’s complaining.

Eli recognizes the faint _click_ of a lighter sparking, and the familiar scent of cigarette smoke hits him almost immediately, so he guesses that there’s another person nearby, maybe watching over the other two thugs?

Damn. He could really go for a few smokes right about now.

A third voice chimes in, quieter than the other two, and he can’t catch what the voice says, but he _does_ catch the sound of steel hitting earth and dirt being shoveled and suddenly everything starts to make sense.

He’s on the ground, tied up like a hog, and some assholes he doesn’t know are digging a hole in the ground. He’s not great at math, but even he can put two and two together here.

So, options. What are his options.

He always carries a pretty extensive arsenal of weapons on him, but he thinks it’s safe to assume that whoever ambushed him took all his weapons before tying him up. Unarmed combat ain’t exactly his strength, but he’s strong, a lot stronger than he looks, so he could always just try to take his captors by surprise.

Which, of course, would likely end with him being shot to hell.

Right. So, upon further evaluation, the situation might be _slightly_ worse than he’d previously thought.

Eli quickly runs through every possible mode of escape, everything, even things he’d only consider if he was really desperate, but every plan he can come up with ends with him dead on the ground. The chances of getting out of this alive are pretty fucking nonexistent.

It’s a little dizzying, coming to terms with your inevitable death while a stranger digs your own grave. He’s almost grateful that these guys left him lying on the ground.

So, at the present, it seems like he's got two choices. One, wait for them to finish digging his grave and kill him. Or, two, he can try to put up a fight, go down swinging.

Fuck it. He’s going to die either way.

Eli opens his eyes, slowly, and finally takes a look at his attackers. Three men, that he can see. Two of them look like they’re wearing Great Khan uniforms. The third is standing nearby, four, maybe five feet away from where he lies on the ground. He can’t see the guy’s face, but he’s dressed in a clean checkered suit and polished leather shoes that look too expensive for a ganger or a wastelander, so he assumes this guy is the one calling the shots.

The man in the suit doesn’t seem to be paying Eli any attention and the two Khans are busy digging his grave, so he decides to take the chance and try to make a run for it.

He twists his hands, tries to pull at the ropes again, but to no avail. If he could sit up or pull his feet closer, he might be able to undo the bindings around his ankles. His hands would still be tied up, but he could at least try to get the hell out of here, worry about untying his hands later.

Might as well give it a shot. At this point, he doesn’t really have much of anything to lose, so slowly, ever so slowly, he moves his bound feet up toward his hands. He tries to be as silent as possible, but his boots scrape against the gravel and dirt, and the checkered man turns to look down at him, and Eli screws his eyes shut, tries to lie as still as possible.

Seconds crawl by and he keeps his breathing shallow, counts to sixty, once, twice over. The sounds of grave digging continue uninterrupted and Eli flutters an eye open cautiously to take stock of the scene. The man is back to watching over the Khans, so Eli moves his feet again, reaches his arms down as far as they’ll go. His fingers hit the top of his boots, so he stretches just a bit more and finally feels the rough, scratchy fiber of rope against his fingertips. _Bingo_.

Eli freezes, sends a furtive glance up toward the men. The Khans are still at work, shoveling and complaining loudly, and the other man is puffing away at his cigarette. No one seems to notice his movement, so he sets to work, fingers frantically fumbling with the knots as he shakily unties himself. After what feels like an eternity of clumsy work, he finally starts to feel his bonds loosen, and he pulls and pulls, until finally the knot comes free and the rope falls from his ankles.

Somehow he’s managed to make it this far without drawing any notice, but getting up off the ground is sure to grab their attention, so jump and strike is the only way to do this. The man in the suit is closest, so Eli picks him as his target. From the looks of him, he’s significantly taller than Eli, but if he can at least knock him over, he might, _just might_ , gain the upper hand. The men are all armed, of that he can be pretty sure, but one step at a time. He can worry about not getting shot later. It’ll be a miracle if he even gets that far.

Well, the only thing left to do now is to act. _Fast_.

He takes a quick moment to gather his strength, takes a deep breath, and pushes himself up off the ground, rolls over onto his feet. He jumps up and kicks the back of the checkered man’s calves and throws his arms over the man’s head, pulls his bound wrists back so they hit the man’s throat. He’s stronger than Eli expected, so he doesn’t topple over like he hoped. He stumbles back, but quickly regains his footing, yet he doesn’t make any move to throw Eli off him.

The Khans hear the commotion and turn, shouting and reaching for their weapons, but the checkered man just puts up a hand and they stop in their tracks, faces frozen in confusion and anger.

“Y'all so much as move a  _muscle_ , y'all even fucking _think_ about shooting me,” Eli shouts, “I snap his neck, and you don’t see a single goddamn cap he promised you.” His breathing is ragged and strained, he feels like he can’t catch a full breath, and he’s well aware he doesn’t sound as intimidating as he’d like, but this is a last-ditch attempt at getting away alive and honestly, he just doesn’t care anymore.

The checkered man doesn’t fight against Eli’s grip, just stands there casually, still smoking away at his cigarette, Eli’s hands at his throat bending him backwards. He doesn’t seem especially bothered by this turn of events and his indifference just makes Eli’s blood boil.

“You let me go, I’ll consider just shooting you in the head instead of blowing out your fucking kneecaps and leaving you to bleed to death.”

The atmosphere is tense for a split second, but then the man points to one of the Khans, a redhead with a tall mohawk, and snaps his fingers. “You heard the man.”

The Khan’s eyes go wide, eyebrows jumping up his forehead. “Boss?”

“You going deaf, pally?” he snaps. “Cut him loose, yeah?”

Apparently not wanting to disobey orders, the Khan shrugs and reaches into his pocket, pulls out a rusty switchblade. He takes a couple hesitant steps toward Eli, and he feels the man in the suit nod against his grip. The Khan seems to take this as further confirmation and sets to work sawing away at the ropes. After a few moments, he feels the fibers snap and the rope falls from his wrists.

Eli jerks his arms away and takes a few steps back as the man in the suit stands upright, turns to give him a wicked smirk. His gaze is fixed somewhere over his shoulder, not quite meeting Eli’s eyes.

“So,” his eyes flick back to meet Eli’s. “What happens now, hey?” The man waves between them, cigarette held loose between two fingers, wisps of smoke trailing through the air. “You’re the boss, baby, you tell me.”

“Right,” Eli breathes, rubbing at the raw skin on his wrists. “Now you—“

A fist slams into the right side of his face, knuckles colliding squarely with his cheekbone. It’s enough to make his eyes water from the impact and he loses his balance, staggers to the side. The unknown attacker takes advantage of this, kicking his feet out from under him, and he falls to the ground with a grunt of pain. Immediately, he feels several pairs of hands holding him down, tying him back up, and he kicks and shouts and spits and scratches, but to no avail.

After a new set of ropes is securely tied around his hands and feet, someone grabs him by the collar of his jacket, none too gently, and hauls him up to rest on his knees.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Eli snarls, jabs his elbows back sharply. His attacker grunts from the blow, gives Eli a hard shove in the back, and he lurches forward, sticks out his bound arms to break the fall. Fat drops of blood fall to the dirt and when he wipes at his nose, his sleeve comes away saturated in blood.

“More trouble than he’s worth, you ask me,” the person mutters, and he can tell from his voice that he’s the Khan with the ugly red mohawk.

The man in the checkered suit takes a final drag of his cigarette and flicks it to the ground, puts it out with the toe of his shoe. “Good thing I wasn’t.”

“Look,” Eli snaps, almost embarrassed by the desperation rising in his voice, “you’re going to kill me, so let’s just get on with it, yeah?”

One of the Khans, a man with a mustache, seems to share the same idea. “There, you see?” he says exasperatedly, waving a hand in Eli’s direction. “Will you get it over with?”

But the checkered man just takes a few steps towards Eli and holds up a finger, wags it back and forth. “Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face,” he says, eyes locked on Eli’s all the while. “But I ain’t a fink, dig?”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out what looks like a large silver poker chip. Eli remembers briefly looking over the manifest for this job and wondering why someone would invest so many caps in the delivery of a useless, worthless item like that. But, apparently, judging by the situation in which he currently finds himself, this is something worth killing for.

The man waves the poker chip, shakes his head. “You’ve made your last delivery, kid.” He’s enjoying this little performance, by the looks of it. “Sorry you got twisted up in this scene.” The chip goes back in his jacket pocket and this time he pulls out a pistol.

Christ, this asshole really has a flair for the dramatics. Any other time he might have found some melodramatic shit like this a little amusing, but right now it’s just infuriating. Being on the receiving end of garbage like this isn't nearly as fun as being the one dishing it out.

“It’s nothing personal. Just business. You understand, yeah?” He nods, bites his lower lip. “Something tells me you’d do the same, if the tables were turned.”

Eli laughs at that, hard and bitter. He’s not wrong. He’s been in this guy’s shoes, countless times.

“From where you’re kneeling,” the man continues, looks down at the piece in his hand, back up at Eli, “it must seem like an eighteen karat run of bad luck.”

He raises the gun, points it squarely at Eli’s head. Eli doesn’t flinch, doesn’t close his eyes. Just stares right back, straight down the barrel of the gun.

“Truth is…” The checkered main smiles, pulls back the hammer with a _click_. “The game was rigged from the start.” Several seconds pass, like he’s giving Eli one last moment, just to let his words sink in, and then he hears the gun fire and the muzzle flash lights up the man’s face and Eli feels the bullet pierce his skull and then nothing.


	2. Ain't No Grave

In his dreams, he sees a house.

It’s a small house, a modest little wooden shack built near the coast. It sits just behind a field of corn, stalks waving in the wind, and further down the shore is a tall lighthouse, ancient and decrepit, crumbling from centuries of erosion.

He feels the cool air against his face as he runs down the beach, scattering the flock of seagulls gathered on the sand. He slows down and comes to a halt, listens to the flap of the gulls’ wings and their squawks and caws as they fly away, watches until they’re just a barely visible speck in the sky. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, soaks in the warm sun and the crisp, salty breeze, listens to the water lapping at the sand.

The weather is perfect today. The sun isn’t too hot, and the breeze isn’t too cold. Just how he likes it.

Someone calls his name and he turns to see a boy. The boy is a tall, gangly teenager with a messy mop of blond hair, cheeks dotted with dark freckles. “Come on, Eli,” he says. “Help me make a sandcastle.”

Eli nods and sits down next to the boy, digging down into the wet sand and scooping up heaping handfuls, mashing them together to form something vaguely resembling a castle. The boy helps him, packing the sand down, shaping and molding it, forming a wall here, a tower there. He feels strangely like he knows the boy, but Eli’s never seen him before.

Suddenly, the boy turns, looks back toward the direction of the house. “Did you hear that?” he whispers.

Eli shakes his head. All he hears is the roll of waves at the shore, the gusting of the wind. In the distance, he can still hear the gulls’ faint cries.

“Eli, I think something is going on at the house.”

He cups a hand around the shell of his ear, straining to hear whatever it is that has the boy so distressed, but still, all he hears is the wind and the birds and the water.

The boy stands up, and Eli hears him gasp. He grabs Eli’s arm and pulls him up, takes off at a run. “Come on, we have to go, now.”

Eli doesn’t fight, just follows after him, pumping his legs as fast as he can, desperately trying to keep up with the older boy. He’s tall and his strides are much larger than Eli’s, and no matter how fast he runs, he can’t match the boy’s pace.

He doesn’t know why the boy is afraid, why he’s making them run away. The beach is nice today and Eli wants to finish their sandcastle and watch the birds. Maybe they can go back down to the shore later. With any luck, the waves might not have reached their castle by the time they get back.

The boy takes them past the lighthouse, past the shack, down into the woods behind the house. “Come on, Eli,” the boy shouts, and he tries to run faster, push himself harder, but the boy just keeps getting farther and farther away.

Eli opens his mouth to call out to him, but no sound comes out. The boy is far ahead, he’s so far ahead, and he blinks and suddenly he’s gone and it’s pitch black outside. He can’t see anything and he doesn’t know which way to go, so he just blindly runs, runs and runs and runs, and his lungs are burning, his heart racing. He’s tired and his legs are screaming and he doesn’t know how long he can keep this up and he wants his parents, but they’re not here, so he keeps going, going and going and going, until his foot catches on something and he trips and falls face down in the dirt and—

He opens his eyes.

Above him, he sees a fan spinning, glazed over eyes following the blades go around and around in their constant circular path.

He has no idea what the hell happened to him, but he has a splitting headache and the light feels like fire to his eyes. His wrists and hands are wrapped in bandages, his entire body is screaming in agony, and he tries to sit up, but he feels a stabbing pain in his sides and sucks in a strained breath through his teeth.

“Careful now,” someone says, and he feels hands on his shoulders helping him upright. “That’s it, nice and easy.”

The voice is gentle and soft and he opens his eyes to see an old man standing over him. After a moment, when the man is satisfied he can handle sitting up by himself, he sits down in the chair next to his bed.

He tries to speak, but his throat is sore and his tongue feels like cotton in his mouth. The man seems to have expected this, as he immediately hands him a glass of water, and he downs it in a few short drinks.

“Just relax for a second,” the man says as he takes the glass from his hands. “Try to get your bearings.”

His head throbs violently and he groans, rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“You’ve been out cold for a couple days, son,” the man says. “Think you can talk?”

He swallows, works his jaw. “Yeah,” he manages to rasp out. “Think so.”

The old man smiles warmly. “Good, good. That’s something,” he says. “Let’s start with your name, then. What’s your name, son?”

He furrows his brow, frowns deeply. His name. He actually has to think about it, but it comes to him after a moment of concentration. “Eli,” he says finally, still struggling against the dryness in his throat. “Name’s Eli.”

“Alright, that’s good,” the man smiles. “How about a last name, kid? You got one of those?”

Eli nods. “Yeah, it’s…” Again, he has to stop and think. The throbbing in his head is only getting worse and he has to take a deep breath to stop himself from doubling over in pain. “It’s Grey, I think.”

“Eli Grey,” the old man repeats. “Nice name, son. I’m Doc Mitchell,” he says, gesturing to himself. “Welcome to Goodsprings.”

“Goodsprings?” Eli bursts out, eyes wide. “Fuck am I doing in Goodsprings?”

“Wish I had an answer for you, kid. I’m just the one who patched you up.” The Doc leans forward to rest on his elbows, fixes Eli with a soft gaze. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I…” he starts, trails off. Everything feels fuzzy and flashes of things are coming back to him slowly, but it’s all muddled, jumbled. “There was a man," he says. "He was wearing some god awful ugly suit. I don’t remember much of anything, I just remember…” His hand immediately goes to his forehead, fingers ghosting over the bandage taped just above his left eye.

“Yeah, he got you good, alright.”

“Can’t have been _that_ good, seeing how I’m still alive,” he says dryly.

The Doc laughs. “Well, either he weren't a good shot, or you’re just one tough son of a bitch.”

Eli purses his lips, gives a half-hearted shrug.

Doc Mitchell gives him a sympathetic pat on the knee and turns to grab a mirror from the bedside table. “Now, I’m sure you won’t mind, son, but I had to dig around through your noggin to get the bits of lead out,” Mitchell says, holds out the mirror for Eli to take. “I didn’t exactly have much reference to work from, so you better tell me if anything is out of place.”

Eli grabs the mirror and holds it up, taking in his appearance with hard eyes. His skin is sickly pale and his eyes are dark and bruised, sunken in. His lips are red and raw, the skin chapped and cracked, his hair shaved down to the scalp, beard grown out and scruffy. A collection of gnarled scars and half-healed cuts and scratches cover his face, scars and scrapes with stories he doesn’t remember.

Now that he thinks about it, he really doesn’t remember much of anything. He vaguely remembers the man in the checkered suit. He remembers his name and that he’s somewhere around thirty-two, thirty-three years old, give or take. But when he tries to remember where he was born, his family, anything before waking up in the Goodsprings cemetery, he can’t. Everything before then is a complete blank.

That should probably frighten him, or worry him at the very least. But all he feels is… empty. Tired.

He tosses the mirror on the bed, rubs at his temples in a futile attempt to ease the unrelenting pain in his head. “My memory's all screwed,” Eli mutters.

“Yeah, I was afraid of that,” Doc Mitchell sighs. “Those bullets did some serious damage. It’s a miracle you’re even awake and talking.”

“Bullets?” he asks.

“Yeah,” the Doc confirms. “He shot you twice.”

Eli raises his brows, but doesn’t reply. “So,” he sighs. “What are these for?” He raises his hands, gestures to the bandages wrapped around them.

“Your hands were all cut up and raw when we brought you in,” he explains. “Had some pretty serious burns on your wrists, too.”

Eli purses his lips, nods slowly. He’s not sure how he should react to any of this. Hearing about your own murder—well,  _attempted_ murder—from a stranger in such a detached and frank manner is slightly unsettling.

He could really go for a drink or ten right about now.

“You don’t know anything about this guy, do you?” Eli asks, running a hand over the thick beard growth along his jaw. Damn, he really needs to shave as soon as possible.

Doc Mitchell leans back in his chair, folds his arms. “Afraid not. I didn’t see him myself, but some of the other town folk might know a thing or two. Victor is probably the best one to talk to, seeing as he’s the fellow who dug you up.”

“Right,” Eli mutters, claps his hands on his knees. “Best get going, then.” He moves to push himself up off the bed slowly, fighting against the burn in his muscles, and Doc Mitchell stands up to offer his help, but he waves him away impatiently. His head spins, and for a moment he feels like he might pass out, but he takes a few deep breaths and slowly regains his balance.

“Easy now,” the Doc says. “Take it slow, kid.”

Eli shakes his head. “Got a lot of lost time to make up for. Can’t take it slow.”

Doc Mitchell sighs, but doesn’t protest. “Alright, alright, kid. Just..." He shrugs, gestures at Eli vaguely. "Try to take a few steps first, make sure you’ve got your feet under you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eli snaps. Christ, but the old man is a nag and his blood is boiling in his veins and he just wants to get out of here, but he takes a deep breath and a step forward and immediately stumbles, falling to the floor in a pathetic heap of skin and scar tissue.

Well. That’s just great, ain’t it?

The Doc curses under his breath and bends down to help Eli up, but Eli grunts and waves him away, pushes himself up and back on his feet with shaky limbs. “See?” Eli says, brushing himself off. “Can do it myself.”

“Oh, yeah,” Doc Mitchell drawls, rolling his eyes. “Fine job you done there, kid.”

“Yeah, well, bite me, asshole,” says Eli. He squares his shoulders, inhales deeply, and takes a confident step forward, and another. “See? What I tell you?”

Doc Mitchell hums, gives him a nod. “How you feeling, son?”

Eli’s starting to feel a little steadier on his feet, the shaking in his limbs beginning to subside, but his headache is only getting worse, piercing pain shooting through his skull, like daggers at his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says.

“Well, good,” the Doc smiles. Eli can’t tell if he’s entirely convinced, but he seems to pick up on how anxious Eli is to get out of here and decides not to argue. “Come on, then. I’ll show you out.”

Doc Mitchell takes Eli down the main hallway and stops in front of a bookshelf on the left wall. He squats down to rummage through an old footlocker and pulls out what looks like a blue jumpsuit, holds it out for Eli to take. “Here you go, son. Something to wear so the locals don’t pick on you for lacking modesty.”

Eli raises an eyebrow and looks down at himself, grunts. Huh. Hadn’t even realized he was walking around half naked.

“You ought to have this, too," the Doc says, a strange device sat on the palm of his hand. Looks to Eli like an armband with a compact terminal screen.

Eli raises an eyebrow at the proffered instrument. “What is it?”

“It’s called a Pip-Boy,” Doc Mitchell says, a far off look in his eyes, like he’s remembering days long past. “We all got one in the vault. It ain’t much use to me now, but I figure you might get some use out of it.”

Eli raises an eyebrow as he slides it on his left arm and fastens it, powers the device up. The casing is dusty and battered, but it turns on immediately, the screen lit up with a bright green glow.

“This is yours, by the way. Was all you had on you when you was brought in.” Mitchell hands Eli a worn canvas messenger bag, and Eli spots thin splatters of blood on the strap. His own blood, most likely.

Eli takes the bag from the Doc’s outstretched hand, slings it over his shoulder. “Well. Uh,” he scratches his forehead, waves a hand at him. “You know. Thanks,” he says stiffly.

“No problem, kid,” Mitchell says, claps Eli on the shoulder. “It’s what I’m here for.”

“Guess so,” he nods.

Doc Mitchell gives Eli a warm smile. “Well, take care of yourself out there. You ever get hurt, come on back here. I’ll fix you right up. But, try not to get killed anymore.”

Eli gives him a tight smile and moves to the door, his hand stopping on the doorknob. He hesitates for a moment and takes a deep breath before he pulls the door open, feels the warm Mojave air on his face, and steps back out into the desert.


	3. Mack The Knife

The Prospector Saloon is quiet, only a few patrons seated at the booths and tables. It’s still fairly early in the morning, just past nine, so he figures most people are still asleep or just waking up. Then again, the town isn’t terribly large, either, so for all he knows, this could be a packed house for them.

Eli heads straight for the bar and slumps onto one of the stools, lets his bag fall to the floor. He drops his head in his hands, fingers massaging his temples. The pain wouldn’t be so bad, maybe even bearable, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s constant and unrelenting.

“Rough day?”

He looks up to see a woman at the bar, wiping away at the counter with an old cloth. “You could say that.”

The woman smiles. “You’ve been causing quite a stir. It’s good to finally meet you. I’m Trudy.”

Eli forces a smile and reaches down to dig in his bag. He pulls out every cap he can find and tosses them on the counter carelessly, starts counting them out with a finger. “How much for a pack of smokes?”

“Five caps,” Trudy says, amusement etched onto her face.

He pushes five caps to the side with a nod. “And how much whiskey can I get with… thirteen caps?”

“One bottle’ll cost you ten.”

He shoves the caps toward Trudy with a bandaged hand and a mumbled thanks as she sets a shot glass on the counter, grabs a bottle of whiskey off the shelf.

“Back from the dead and the first thing on your mind is to get drunk,” Trudy comments, sliding the bottle down the counter.

Eli gives her a blank stare as he takes the bottle, fills his glass up to the brim. “Look, I just died and came back within the span of a few days, yeah? Not exactly something anyone wants to experience while sober.”

“It was more than a few days,” Trudy corrects. “You were out for a good week.”

Eli raises an eyebrow. “A week?”

“I think it’s been eight days, if we’re being exact.”

Huh. An entire week of his life, gone. Ain’t that something.

He gives a one-armed shrug, downs his glass in one drink. The whiskey burns his throat, but it’s pleasant and familiar. He doesn’t know if he had a preferred drink before, but he thinks he probably had his fair share of whiskey in the past.

Eli sets the glass on the counter with a dull thud, reaches for the pack of cigarettes. “You got a light?” he asks as he gives the pack a few good smacks with the heel of his palm, pulls out a cigarette, and sticks it between his lips.

Trudy turns and grabs one off the shelf, drops it in Eli’s outstretched hand.

He lights the cigarette and takes a deep, long drag, blows out the smoke with a content sigh. “So,” he taps his cigarette in the ashtray on the counter, takes another pull. “You know anything about the guys who attacked me?”

“Not much,” Trudy shakes her head, “other than they’re a bunch of freeloaders who expected a few rounds on the house. I was able to get them to pay up though.”

Eli fills up his glass, takes another shot. “Did they say where they were going?”

“They were having some kind of argument about it, but the guy in the checkered coat kept shushing them,” she explains. “Sounded like they came in from the north through Quarry Junction. If that’s the case, I can’t say I blame them for not wanting to go back.”

“Go on,” Eli presses.

“That whole area’s overrun with the kind of critters that just get mad if you shoot them,” Trudy says with a shiver. “Merchants avoid that whole stretch of I-15 like it’s radioactive. Which it could be, for all I know.”

Another full glass, another shot. “You still haven’t said where these guys were going,” he snaps, unable to keep the irritated edge out of his voice.

If Trudy is offended by the outburst, she doesn’t show it. “Well, I didn’t hear exactly, but the leader was talking about the Strip.”

Eli hums, taps his fingers on the counter absently in thought. “So, if he’s headed for the Strip and he wants to avoid I-15… ?”

“He’d have to go east. Take Highway 93 up,” Trudy finishes.

Eli nods slowly, pours himself one last generous shot. I-15, Highway 93, the Strip… it’s all vaguely familiar. Maybe it's just his personal memories that got screwed by the bullets, and his knowledge of the world is still intact. That's fine with him. He’d rather remember how to navigate the desert than remember what his favorite color is or what he ate for dinner two weeks ago.

Eli lifts the drink to his lips and kicks it back, savoring the last few drops of whiskey. “They say anything else?” he asks, dropping the glass to the counter. “Did you catch a name, anything?”

“Afraid not,” Trudy shakes her head. “Sorry.”

“What about the guy who dug me up?” Eli asks. “Doc Mitchell mentioned a Victor or something. You know him?”

A frown pulls at Trudy’s mouth, but she nods once. “I know that… thing… as much as anyone else around here. It mostly keeps to itself, which is just fine by me.”

“Thing?” Eli repeats, eyebrow arched.

“It’s one of them robots,” she says with thinly veiled distaste. “It was here when I took over the saloon seven years ago. Some people have said its owner lived here, but no one knows who it was.”

“Look, I don’t really give a damn who he is,” Eli says, takes a final pull off his cigarette, puts it out in the ashtray. “He dug me up and he probably knows something about the piece of shit who shot me, that’s all I care about.”

Trudy frowns, mutters something under her breath about manners. “Fair enough,” she says simply.

Eli sighs, taps his fingers on the counter. “You know where I can find him?”

“It’s got a shack in town,” says Trudy, “but usually you can find it just rolling around out there.”

“What’s he do around here?”

“Other than rolling around once in awhile, it doesn’t do anything useful, as far as I can tell,” Trudy says. “I don’t know why it took an interest in you, but I’d be careful. It’s never helped anyone before.”

Eli nods disinterestedly, looks down at the meager amount of money left on the counter. “How much more whiskey will three caps get me?”

Trudy raises an eyebrow, a smirk pulling at her lips. “You wouldn’t happen to be the tinkering type, would you?”

Eli laughs, dry and humorless. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he mumbles, picking at the stiff wrappings around his hands to avoid looking Trudy in the eyes.

She frowns, but doesn’t press further. “Well, one of the Great Khans knocked my radio to the floor _by accident_ ,” she says, rolls her eyes, “and it hasn’t been working since.”

“…And?”

“And,” Trudy continues, “if you can get it working again, I’d much appreciate it. There’d be caps in it for you too.”

That catches his attention. “How many caps we talking?”

“All depends on whether or not you get the radio working.”

“Yeah, well, whether or not I do it all depends on how much money I’m getting,” says Eli.

Trudy narrows her eyes, purses her lips. “Fifty caps sound good?”

A shrug. “It’s a start.” He motions for Trudy to bring the radio over and sets to opening the casing, pokes around the wires and internal components. This feels natural, taking things apart, fixing them back up. Maybe he’d been good at this before, in his old life.

Truth be told, he’s not terribly interested in what his life was like before the bullets. That life is gone now, and he doesn’t see the point in chasing after ghosts. Leave the past where it belongs: in the fucking past.

He moves a few wires around, snaps a few pieces back into place, and the radio turns on immediately, filling the saloon with the soft crackle of static feedback and the sounds of Mr. New Vegas’ crooning voice. Easy enough.

Trudy’s eyebrows jump up her forehead and her eyes go wide. “Well, guess you are the tinkering type.”

“Guess so,” he says. “Anyways. About those caps.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t forget,” Trudy reassures.

“I want seventy-five.”

Her face falls. “Seventy-five? I could buy a new radio with those caps.”

Eli shrugs. “You wanted it fixed. I fixed it. I want seventy-five.”

Her jaw jumps, eyebrows knit, and for a moment, it looks as though she’s going to refuse, but she leaves and heads into one of the rooms in the back and returns just a few minutes later with a pouch of caps. She tosses it on the counter unceremoniously, her gaze icy. “There you go. Seventy-five.”

Fixing the radio was laughably easy, not even a job worth ten caps. But Trudy didn’t have to know that. He counts fifteen caps out of the bag and slides them down the counter, right back into Trudy’s hands. “Another bottle of whiskey and another pack of smokes.”

Trudy takes the caps with a smile, her demeanor softer now that some of her caps are coming back to her, drops the cigarettes and the whiskey on the counter in front of her.

He nods his thanks and reaches down to grab his bag off the floor, throws the bottles of whiskey and the packs of cigarettes inside carelessly and rummages around, rifling through the bag’s contents, pulling out everything he finds and laying it on the counter.

A pair of sunglasses, a flip lighter, a worn leather jacket, a switchblade, a 9mm pistol, and a work order from the Mojave Express are all he finds inside, and he wonders if his attackers had gone through his stuff before they buried him. Or maybe he just traveled light and this was all he carried. He can’t be sure.

The work order is crumbled and torn, but still legible. His eyes immediately skip down to the payment line. Two hundred fifty caps on delivery. Not bad. Probably why he took the job in the first place.

He quickly scans over the paper for anything else of interest, anything he might have missed. His eyes skim over the delivery instructions, and he notices a name, a Johnson Nash in Primm. Not much, but it's the closest he has to a lead.

The rest of the memo is boring, fine print nonsense, contract penalties, nothing particularly interesting in that section, but the shipment manifest catches his eye. One oversized poker chip, made of platinum.

Some asshole in a bad suit ambushed him, shot him, and buried him in a shallow grave... for a poker chip. Christ.

Well, that’s fine. He’d just have to kill him back.

He slides the sunglasses onto his face and shrugs into the leather jacket, shoves everything else into his bag with a huff. No time to waste, then, if he’s going to try to catch up with this guy.

Vegas is about a day’s walk away, and the checkered man has an eight day lead on him, so if he’s even the slightest bit competent, he’s back on the Strip by now. Only problem is, Eli knows nothing about him, other than the fact that he’s apparently got poor fashion sense.

As much as he likes the idea, barging into Vegas and killing everyone on sight isn’t exactly practical. Not that he’s concerned with who gets caught in the crossfire. He doesn’t much care who dies along the way, so long as it’s not him.

Besides, he wants to know the man before he kills him, play to his weaknesses. The checkered man might have started this whole thing, but Eli was going to end it, his way, on his terms.

Primm is the best place to start looking. Talk to this Nash guy, see what he knows about the delivery. Take things from there.

The sun is already beaming as he steps out of the saloon and into the desert morning, the air hot and dry, seeping into his skin, warming his bones. He busies himself with a cigarette and looks over to see an old man reclined in an old wooden chair near the saloon entrance. He hadn’t been there earlier this morning.

Eli points at him with his cigarette, knits his brows. “You seen an ugly fuck in a checkered suit?”

“Oh, I seen him,” the old man nods. “Don’t know much, other than he seemed to be the fellow calling the shots.”

“Yeah,” says Eli. “Seems to be the only thing anyone around here knows about him.”

“Well, I might not know much, but I can offer a word of advice,” he says. “If you ever catch up with him, watch out. The man’s got cold eyes, like a _snake_. Can’t be trusted, I’d say.”

Eli smirks, blows out a thick stream of smoke. “I’ll take my chances.”


	4. Further On Up The Road

The grit and gravel along the ancient, cracked highway crunches under Eli’s boots, every step kicking up a cloud of dust. He jerks the collar of his jacket up closer to his ears in an attempt to keep the sand from his face, but to no avail.

Sweat drips down his forehead and into his eye and he pulls off his sunglasses with a huff, scrubs at his eyelid with the back of a hand. The heat is just relentless today, not a cloud in the sky to block the bright Mojave sun from beating down on him mercilessly.

It’s nice, being out on the road in the open desert with a clear goal in mind, something to keep him going. Having a purpose, a driving motivation. It just feels _good_.

The weather, however, leaves something to be desired.

He’s pretty certain that he’s lived in the Mojave for some time, if not his whole life, so he thinks he should be used to the weather by now, but the unending heat, combined with his pounding headache, is leaving him irritable and on edge.

Well. More so than usual, anyways.

Eli wonders briefly what he used to do before all this, before the bullets left his memories a scrambled mess. He knows he works as a courier—or used to, anyway—but what he did with his time before that is anyone’s best guess.

No one came looking for him or asking after him in the eight days he was out, so he doubts that he has anyone out there missing him or waiting for him. Friends and family just don’t seem like things he’s ever really had, or ever really wanted. Somehow he thinks that it’s always been like this, him alone on the road with only the desert for company.

That’s fine by him. It’s better this way, being a lonesome wanderer, drifting from place to place, no one to slow him down. People lie and cheat and stab you in the back, double cross you, weaken you. Some might think it a sad and lonely existence, and maybe it is, but it suits him fine.

Eli heaves a sigh and checks his Pip-Boy for the time, wiping away at the dust and dirt on the screen with his thumb. It’s nearly five in the afternoon, about seven hours after he left Goodsprings. He’d been hoping to make better time, but considering he’d just come back from the dead this morning, he figures he’s doing alright. Another five, ten minutes tops, and he’ll be inside the city.

Leaving on a quest for revenge immediately after waking up from a brief coma was, logically, not the brightest idea. His feet feel heavy, his shoes scuffing against the pavement, his head throbbing, and has been since he came to this morning. He needs rest and a meal, but that would mean stopping, and time spent resting is time wasted.

Besides, he’ll have plenty of time to sleep when he’s dead.

The old wooden roller coaster looms over the city’s buildings in the not-too-far-off distance, the timeworn beams creaking and groaning in the wind. A strange sense of déjà vu washes over him, and he knows he’s been here before, but it all looks new, and yet familiar at the same time. The memories of this place are like a name on the tip of his tongue, there but _just_ out of reach. It’s frustrating, terribly so.

An NCR flag flies on the streetlight ahead, soldiers stationed at a guard post further up the road. To his surprise, none of the soldiers stop him or ask him where he’s going, and he keeps his head down, shoulders squared as he makes his way through the camp, down across a crumbling overpass into the city. Something about the NCR just makes his skin crawl.

Had he been an NCR soldier before? He hopes not. Doesn’t really seem like the kind of thing he would do, though he supposes it’s not exactly his place to say, since he’s not even entirely sure what kind of person he really is.

The streets of Primm are deserted, an eerie silence in the air as he makes his way into town. Perhaps it’s just paranoia, but he can’t help but feel like something is off about this place. His fingers twitch at his side, itching for the gun at his hip. He sighs and lights up a cigarette, just to give his fingers something to do, pretends not to notice the way his hands shake.

Maybe those bullets messed him up more than he thought.

That’s fine. The very real potential of psychological trauma doesn’t much bother him. As long as he’s alive and breathing, nothing else matters.

The Mojave Express building is directly ahead, just ahead on the right. Someone is slumped against the outside of the building, and he’s not close enough to tell for certain, but he’s fairly sure he can see fresh blood staining the person’s clothes, pooling on the pavement around their body.

Eli reaches for his gun, takes extra care to keep his footfalls light. Whoever, or whatever, had killed this guy probably wasn’t too far off. He’s not about to go down because of a sloppy ambush just a handful of hours after he’s come back from the dead.

Something stirs in the corner of his eye and he immediately fires off a shot in the general direction of the movement, and he’s not sure if it hits something, but he hears voices shouting and heavy footsteps coming his way, and Jesus _Christ_ , he’s too tired for this.

A pair of men, raiders by the looks of them, round the corner, weapons in hand, pointing at Eli and yelling something he can’t make out. Eli scrambles to take cover behind an old car sitting in the middle of the road, crouches to keep his head down and out of their line of sight.

He leans out briefly to take stock of the men’s positions and ducks back as a bullet whizzes by his ear, several inches off target. Not a very good shot, this guy, though Eli’s certainly not complaining.

Assuming there aren’t more men nearby, this should be an easy enough jam to get himself out of.

With a quick inhale through his teeth, he pushes himself off the ground and aims quickly, squeezes the trigger, nailing one of the men square in the cheekbone. He staggers back with the force of the bullet and crumples to the ground, and Eli takes advantage of the other man’s surprise at his companion’s death to shoot him in the stomach, once, twice, three times, and the man staggers back before dropping to his knees and falling forward flat on his face.

Too easy.

So far, much to his pleasant surprise, it seems like the bullets to the head haven’t affected his aim. The roads had been quiet today and he hadn’t run into much trouble, but every fight he’s had so far today has been quick and clean.

The man he’d shot in the stomach is still groaning and gasping, hands clenched into fists so tight he can see the whites of his knuckles.

Eli takes a deep, long pull off his cigarette and exhales slowly, prodding at the man with the tip of his boot before Eli kicks him over onto his back. The man screams, a pitiful, shrill noise, and he rolls his eyes, shoves his hands in his pockets. The raider’s fighting desperately to catch a full breath, chest rising and falling rapidly, but the bleeding is too much and he can tell he’s going to die soon.

“Any other guys around?” Eli asks, as mild as if he was asking about the weather.

The man, predictably, doesn’t answer. Whether he can’t or flat out won’t isn’t Eli’s problem. He just wants an answer.

“Not sure if you heard,” Eli snaps, lifting his right foot and placing it directly over one of his entry wounds, “but I asked a fucking question.”

His eyes go wide and his mouth opens, like he wants to say something, but he snaps it shut, screws his eyes closed.

Eli sighs and presses his foot down and the man yells, so he applies more pressure, leaning his weight forward onto his right leg, ignoring the man’s desperate screams for him to stop.

“Then fucking tell me,” he says. “Anyone else around?

“No,” the man finally shouts, shakes his head. “It was just us two.”

 A nod. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

No answer.

Eli squats down to his level and pats him down, digs through his pockets, looking for anything useful. All he’s got on him is some NCR currency and loose ammo, and Eli throws the man’s stuff into his bag carelessly, gives the man one last good kick before he steps over the man to give his friend’s body the same search.

He doesn’t find much on this man’s body either, just a few measly NCR dollars, some spent casings, old crumpled food wrappers. His clothes are in decent shape, though, and he looks about Eli’s height, so he strips his body completely, shoving the garments in his pack along with everything else.

The Mojave Express outpost is quiet as he makes his way inside, the sunlight seeping in through the frosted windows the only source of light. He flicks the light switch next to the front door and, to his faint surprise, the room lights up, ancient fluorescent light bulbs casting soft light around the dingy, dusty interior.

“Hello?” he calls out.

Nothing.

He curses under his breath, runs a hand over his stubbly hair. This is his only solid lead, and while the idea of going into Vegas guns blazing sounds fun, he doesn’t think his odds of making it so much as two steps inside before being shot down are very high.

There _are_  plenty more buildings in town. It’s always possible that this Nash guy just isn’t home at the moment, and if that guy outside in the dirt hadn’t been lying, he can search the city without interruption now.

It wouldn’t surprise him if he’d lied, of course, but that’s why he’d left him to bleed out in the road.

Eli huffs and drops his bag to the floor, takes out the dead man’s clothes to inspect them properly. They smell terrible and the shirt is dotted with flecks of blood and gore, but it’s better than what he’s wearing at the moment, so he stands up and kicks off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket, peels off the vault suit and tosses it to the floor, pulling on the dead man’s clothes unceremoniously. The pants are a little baggy, but they’ll do until he finds someone wearing something more his size.

As he’s getting ready to leave, he notices an old, weathered robot sitting on the service counter, seemingly dumped and left there without a second thought. The casing is dented and the antennas crooked, every inch of the old bot covered in sand and grit. It would be a fairly easy repair, if he had the parts on hand that he needs. He could always come back, get the robot online and running, sell it for a decent price. Somehow he thinks he’ll need all the caps he can get his hands on if he plans on getting to Vegas alive.

Primm is still silent as he makes his way back outside, the only sound that of a fire crackling and burning away in an old oil drum across the street. He doubts that guy had told him the truth when he’d said it was just the two of them roaming around, but he’ll take the peace and quiet while it lasts.

So. The casinos are the best place to start. Even if this Nash guy isn’t in one of them, there’s got to be someone who can point him in the right direction.

He decides to start in the closest casino, a place called the Vikki and Vance. It looks like an absolute shithole, but, then again, so does everything else in this town.

The overwhelming stench of sweat and mold hits him as he makes his way inside, sharp and strong enough that it sets his stomach to spinning. Christ, it’s like getting punched with the smell of piss-soaked drunks.

An older man stands off to the side leaning up against some slot machines, cigarette hanging loosely between his index and middle finger. He raises his eyebrow at Eli as he walks inside, stands up a little straighter. “I don’t know what it was brought you to Primm, youngster,” he says, pulling an old revolver out of his pocket, “but you might want to rethink your plans. Town’s gone to hell.”

“Just looking for some guy,” Eli says. “Nash.” A shrug. “You know him?”

“Course I know him. Johnson Nash,” he says, offers his hand for Eli to shake.

Eli pointedly ignores his outstretched hand and digs around in his bag until he finds what he’s looking for, holding it out for him to take. “I was a courier. Anything you can tell me about this delivery?”

Nash takes the delivery order, brings it up close to his face, squinting as he runs his eyes down the page. “Ah,” he says after a moment, “this is one of _them_ packages. That job had strange written all over it.”

He frowns. “What was strange about it?”

“Well, that cowboy robot had us hire six couriers,” he explains. “Each was carrying something a little different. A pair of dice, a chess piece, that kind of stuff.”

Eli hums, flicks the ash from his cigarette idly. “Any of the other couriers get ambushed? Attacked? Anything?”

“Last word I had from the office, it looked like payment had been received for the other five jobs,” Nash shrugs. “Guess it was just your chip that didn’t make it.”

Eli sighs, rubs at the back of his neck with a free hand. “Anything else you can tell me? You ain’t giving me shit here.”

“Well, I can tell you that the first deadbeat we hired to do the job canceled. Hope a storm from the Divide skins him alive,” he grumbles, waving a dismissive hand. “Anyway, that’s where you came in.”

Eli rolls his eyes, huffs impatiently. “Look, I don’t give a shit about whoever bailed on you, yeah?” He tosses his cigarette to the floor, crosses his arms. “Some asshole in a checkered suit stole my package. He would have had some thugs with him. Anyone seen someone like that?”

Nash furrows his brow, purses his lips. “Well, now that you mention it, a few nights back one of the townies was out scavenging for supplies. He said he saw a fellow with a daisy suit come through with some of them Great Khan misfits. They was talking about a chip.”

“That guy in the suit," Eli says. "He shot me. I need to get to him.”

“Well, your best bet for that is going to be talking to Deputy Beagle,” says Nash. “Since they came to town he was keeping a good bit of notes on them, and he was slinking around Bison Steve when your pretty-boy friend came through. He may have heard where they were going.”

“God,” Eli sighs, “he’s not my friend. Just… thanks.” A shrug. “Or whatever.”

“Don’t go getting yourself shot, kid,” Nash calls after him as he turns to leave.

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Been there, done that.”


	5. The Wanderer

Eli slams his back flush against the crumbling brick wall, heart pounding, lungs burning. He peaks his head out of cover, just long enough to pin down the last man’s location.

After a moment of searching, he finds the man standing at the front of the old building, about twenty feet from his position. He’s got his back to Eli, the idiot. He smirks to himself and lines up the shot, holds his breath, squeezes the trigger and—

The bullet hits him square in the back of his skull and he falls to the ground almost immediately. A clean kill.

Eli takes a deep breath and wipes the sweat from his forehead, lets himself relax for just a moment. The roads are usually quiet at this late hour, and over the past week he’s done much of his travelling at night. Until now, he’s been lucky enough not to run into anything other than geckos and radscorpions, but it seems his luck has run out.

Well, not like luck was ever really on his side, anyways.

Jackals aren’t known for their combat skills, but they’d caught him off guard tonight and nearly taken him out. He’s getting lazy, making careless mistakes. This wouldn’t have happened if he’d just stayed alert.

Eli sighs, drags a hand down his face, and makes a silent promise to himself to not let something like this happen again. It’s not that he doubts his own abilities. He knows he can overcome anything the desert throws at him, but he’s got unfinished business to take care of, and he can’t do that if he’s dead in the ground somewhere.

Besides, he’s already come back from the dead once. Twice? That just might be pushing it, even for him.

He pushes himself upright and holsters his gun, starts to make his way around the dead bodies, taking anything valuable or of interest. One of the dead Jackals has a few vials of Med-X on them, and he almost tosses them back on the body, but he stops himself, shrugs, and throws the chems in his bag.

The desert air is cool and dry tonight, a light breeze whistling through the air, carrying the smell of ash from the nearby town of Nipton. The smoke just off in the distance rises in thick, black, billowing plumes and he catches the stench of burning flesh.

Something had obviously gone down in Nipton, and as he makes his way up the road and over the hill, he can see Legion flags flying at the entrance to the town. A man dressed in what he thinks is Powder Ganger clothes spots Eli as he makes his way over the hill and he runs over, whooping and hollering all the way. He pounces on Eli, wrapping his arms around him, holding Eli in an iron vice.

Eli immediately grabs his gun and presses it to the man’s skull, but he doesn’t seem terribly bothered by this. After a moment, he releases Eli from his embrace and shouts, “Yeah! Who won the lottery? I did!”

Eli shoves him away, but doesn’t holster his gun. “The fuck are you talking about?”

He either doesn’t hear Eli’s question or chooses to ignore it and inhales deeply, hands on hips, a sickly sweet grin spread across his face. “Smell that air! Couldn’t you just drink it like booze?”

“The hell is wrong with you?” Eli snaps, gun pointed directly at his forehead. “What lottery are you talking about?”

“What lottery?” the man parrots, and he looks positively dumbfounded by the question before he continues, “ _the_ lottery, that’s what lottery. Are you stupid? Only lottery that matters.” He laughs, loud and deep, and inhales again. “Oh my _God_ , smell that air!”

Eli scowls and pulls the trigger and the man falls to the ground, that dumb, giddy expression stuck on his face. “Annoying fuck,” he mumbles as he steps over the lifeless body and makes his way into town.

The town is quiet, but it’s a more sinister quiet than the silence he’d been met with in Primm.

Doesn’t much matter to him. He’s just passing through on his way to Novac. The fate of some tiny town doesn’t concern him much.

Most of the buildings and homes he passes as he makes his way down the quiet streets are either destroyed or on fire, and although he doesn’t remember much about the Legion, he finds himself rather unsurprised at the state of the small town. This probably isn’t the first community he’s seen the Legion turn on its head and it probably won’t be the last.

Eli makes his way around the corner onto what appears to be the main street in town and stops, shoves his hands in his pockets.

It’s almost impressive, how much destruction the Legion manages to cause everywhere they go. Eli’s got no fondness for them, but they’re certainly efficient.

Tall, wooden crosses line either side of the street, people that he can only assume are townspeople, nailed to the boards and left to die. Bad way to go, crucifixion. Eli doesn’t envy them.

A group of Legion soldiers and their hounds stand at the end of the road, just in front of what looks like an old town hall building. They must have seen Eli by now, but they haven’t made any move to attack, so he reaches a hand back to unbuckle the clasp on his gun’s holster—just in case things suddenly go south—and makes his way down the street, eyes locked on the group of Legionaries.

One of the Legionaries—a man wearing something that looks like a coyote head as a hat and thick black goggles covering his eyes—turns as Eli approaches, a thin smile stretching across his lips.

“Don’t worry,” the Legionary says, sickly sweet, “I won’t have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these degenerates.” He gestures to the crucified townspeople lining the street. “It’s useful that you happened by.”

Eli doesn’t say anything, just raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms.

“I want you to witness the fate of the town of Nipton, to memorize every detail,” says the man, voice unsettlingly grating and nasal. “And then when you move on? I want you to teach everyone you meet the lesson that Caesar’s Legion taught here, especially any NCR troops you run across.”

Eli barks a dry laugh. “And what lesson is that, exactly?”

“Where to begin?” he asks. “That they are weak, and we are strong? This much was known already.”

Christ. This guy is a regular cardboard cutout, mustache twirling, monologuing jackass.

“But the depths of their sickness, their dissolution?” He pauses, shakes his head. “Nipton serves as the perfect object lesson.”

“Right, whatever,” Eli snaps, waving a dismissive hand. “Cut the melodramatics, yeah? You going to tell me what went on here or what?”

The man folds his arm, mirroring Eli’s stance. “Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt. It served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers, men of the Legion such as myself—the people here didn’t care.” He pauses, smiles wickedly. “It was a town of whores.”

Eli reaches up to rub at his temples and huffs in annoyance. Man, this guy is annoying. “You always talk in riddles? What happened?”

“For a pittance, the town agreed to lead those it had sheltered into a trap.” The Legionary gives him a sly smile. “Only when I sprang it did they realize they were caught inside it, too.”

“You captured everyone?”

“Yes, and herded them to the center of town,” he drawls. “I told them their sins, the foremost being disloyalty. I told them that when Legionaries are disloyal, some are punished, the others made to watch. And I announced the lottery.”

Suddenly, things start to fall together. That’s why that annoying guy had been so happy about winning the lottery. He’d won his life.

Well, not for long, of course. Eli had relieved him of that right quick.

The Legionary seems to take note of the recognition on Eli’s face and nods. “Each clutched his ticket, hoping it would set him free. Each did nothing, even when _loved ones_ were dragged away to be killed.”

“So, you killed a bunch of innocent nobodies.” Eli purses his lips and raises his brows, gives the Legionary a one-armed shrug. “Supposed to impress me or something? Anyone can do that.”

“Innocent?” the man repeats, that same smile still pulling his lips up into an unpleasant curl. “Hardly. Cowardly, though. They outnumbered us, yet not once did they try to resist. They stood and watched as their fellows were butchered, crucified, and burned, one by one. They stood and hoped their turn would not come. Each cared only for himself.”

“Look," Eli snaps, "you want to brag about you and your Legion boys tearing down some houses, killing some people? Do whatever boosts your ego, buddy, but I’ve done worse by myself. This here,” he nods to the burning debris and broken bodies, “this ain’t shit.”

Eli’s not actually sure if he has done worse, of course, but he’d like to think he could cause more destruction than a couple of fools in ugly clothes and dog hats.

“Oh?” the man asks. “By all means, feel free to demonstrate. You appear to feel strongly about it, but soon..." he smiles wickedly. "You won’t feel a thing.”

The Legionaries outnumber him ten to one, and the hounds make it nearly fifteen to one. Taking them on is a bad idea, but he hasn’t exactly made many smart decisions since waking up. No point starting now.

Besides, it could be fun. It’s been a while since he’s had a real challenge.

He reaches back a hand to grab his gun from its holster, and he tries to be quick about it, but he’s just not quick enough, and one of the Legionaries catches on to what he’s about to do and starts shouting something in a language he doesn’t recognize.

Here’s where the fun starts.

Eli takes off, runs as fast as he can manage and takes cover behind the closest intact house, firing off shots blindly behind him as he goes. The soldiers’ shouts and the dogs’ snarls aren’t far behind, so he keeps moving, zigzagging from house to house in an attempt to throw them off his position. The crack of gunfire joins the cacophony of noise and he curses under his breath furiously.

He hadn’t counted on them being armed with anything more than machetes, maybe some spears or something, but definitely not guns. The hounds are making this much more difficult, too, as he can hide from the soldiers’ line of sight, but he can’t exactly hide his scent from the hounds.

He digs around in his bag as he runs, shoving old rifles and various handguns to the side as he hunts for one weapon in particular. After a moment of desperate searching, he finally finds what he’s looking for and smiles to himself. God, what a beautiful sight this baby is.

The Legionaries round the corner and head straight for Eli, and he doesn’t have time to check if the gun is loaded, but he pulls the trigger twice and the ground in front of the soldiers explodes, sending dirt and blood and gore flying up into the air.

Grenade launcher. Best purchase he’s made since he woke up.

A few of the soldiers are still standing, and he finishes them off quick with his pistol, a few well-aimed shots sending them to the ground in a pile of tangled and broken limbs.

And, just like that, the town is silent once again.

The man in the dog hat is towards the back of the pile, and Eli laughs to himself as he lights up a cigarette. He was big talk, going on and on about how the people the Legion had killed here were cowards, but when it came down to it, he was just as much of a coward as the townspeople. Letting his men go in front of him, using them as meat shields. Pathetic.

He takes a long drag off his cigarette and rifles through his bag again, this time pulling out the old crumpled delivery order from the Mojave Express, sets the edges of the paper on fire with his lighter, dropping it on the Legionary’s body unceremoniously.

The fur on the man’s hat starts to smoke, and he waits and watches until it sets aflame, a smirk pulling at his lips at the sight. He drops his cigarette on his body, shoves his hands in his pockets, and sets off for Novac.


	6. Call Me Irresponsible

“How much are stims?”

“Thirty caps each,” the merchant says cheerily.

Eli looks down at the pathetic pile of caps in the palm of his gloved hand, counts them up quickly, and curses under his breath. Fourteen in total.

“Got any water?” he asks.

The merchant gives him a nod. “Purified water goes for ten caps each.”

“One of those. You sell ammo?”

“I’ve got some 9mm ammo. That’ll cost you one cap per bullet.”

Eli looks down at the caps in his hand and sighs. The road has been long and merciless since he passed through Nipton a few weeks ago, problem after problem thrown at him, like the desert is trying to knock him down and _keep_ him down. But, no matter how hard it tries, he’s here and he’s alive and he’s breathing, another step closer to his goal.

Still, as nice as it’s been getting back in the action, it’s been a challenge, to say the least. He’s not exactly raking in the caps these days, and even with scavenging abandoned houses and stealing and pick pocketing, supplies are just plain hard to come by. One of the drawbacks of post-post-apocalyptic life in the Mojave, he supposes.

Anyways, when it comes down to it, he’d rather have a loaded gun at his hip than some food in his stomach. He can go without food and water for days, but ammo, not so much.

“Four of the bullets,” Eli tells the merchant, handing over the small pile of money and taking his purchases wordlessly, shoving the water in his bag, the ammo in his pocket.

Hopefully someone here knows something about this guy he’s been chasing. A month on the road and he’s got nothing to show for it. No money, barely any leads to go on, hell, he doesn’t even have the guy’s _name_.

He’s not terribly interested in the particulars of this man’s life. He doesn’t care who he is or where he comes from, only the necessary details: his name, where he stays, his daily routine, and his weaknesses. Just enough so Eli knows how to find him and take him out quick.

Novac seems to be one of the more visibly populated towns he’s found himself in so far. It’s small, and hardly qualifies as a town, but there are people out and about, tending to crops, making repairs to their homes, going about their lives.

The whole idea is so foreign to him, having a steady home, a place to call your own and put down roots. Sounds like a veritable nightmare, if he’s being frank. Life on the road is hard, but he can’t imagine a domestic life, waking up every day and going through the motions of some miserable existence. He wouldn’t trade the life he’s got, not even for a safe, comfortable one.

The old dinosaur statue is probably the best place to start his search. He’s fairly certain he’d seen the glare of a sniper’s scope in the mouth of the dinosaur, and a sniper watching the road would be the most likely to know something about a stranger coming through town.

Eli makes his way up the worn wooden steps and inside the dinosaur, and a man behind the counter greets him with a warm smile.

“Welcome to the Dino Bite Gift Shop. My name’s Cliff,” he says. “If you’re here for the T-Rex figurines, you’re just in time. There’s still a few left.”

Eli raises an eyebrow and frowns. He’s not sure what he was expecting to find inside, but a gift shop was decidedly not it. “I’m looking for a guy in a checkered coat,” he says slowly. “You seen anyone like that?”

“Sure,” says Cliff, “but he didn’t buy any souvenirs, if that’s what you’re wondering. Sounded like he didn’t have his money with him. His friends seemed disappointed about it. Heck, I would be, too, if I found such a fine store and left my money elsewhere.”

“Look,” Eli says, forcing himself to stay calm, “I don’t care if he bought a souvenir or not. I just need to know which way he went.”

Cliff purses his lips and shrugs. “Manny might know more about them. Thought he might’ve been friends with one or two of them. He’s up in the dino mouth, if you want to ask him about it.”

Eli nods his thanks to Cliff and turns to head up the steps into the sniper’s nest. This whole thing, chasing after this checkered asshole, has felt like a wild goose chase. Across multiple states, no less.

This Manny guy better know something, and something useful.

Eli swings the door open and Manny turns to face him, brows knit, a frown pulling at his mouth. “What’s going on, man?”

Eli folds his arms, gives Manny a nod. “Looking for a guy in a checkered coat. Heard you might know something about him.”

“Sure, I know him,” Manny says. “What do you want with him?”

He clenches his fist, works his jaw. “I have a score to settle,” he says plainly.

Manny chuckles. “Doesn’t surprise me. Guy seemed like he’d do whatever it takes to get what he wants. Probably makes a lot of enemies.” He scratches at his chin and gives Eli a lopsided shrug. “Well, listen, I can definitely help you find him, but I’ve got problems of my own.”

“Christ,” Eli mutters under his breath, drags a hand down his face. He’s really not in the mood for this nonsense, and for a moment, Eli’s almost tempted to put a bullet through Manny's head for annoying him, but he seems to be the only person who really knows anything about this guy, so he sighs and composes himself, shoves his hands in his pockets. “What do you want?”

“Well, maybe we can do a trade,” Manny suggests. “You need my help. There’s something I need, too.”

“I’m not one for doing favors,” he warns. “There better be some good info in this for me. Turns out you’re screwing around, I won’t hesitate to beat you the shit out of you and throw you to the dogs.”

“Hey, hey,” he says, palms raised in surrender, “it’s good info. I can promise you that, man.”

Eli narrows his eyes, upper lip pulled back in a scowl. He doesn’t trust Manny, but, at the very least, he knows _something_ , so he decides to indulge him. For the moment, anyways. “What do you want?”

Manny smiles. “Novac, it’s home for me now. I want that to be for good. I like it here, and I’ve left too many homes behind.”

He sighs, moves his finger in a circular motion, gesturing for him to get to the point. “That’s nice. _What do you want?_ ” he repeats, any hint of patience gone from his voice.

“Well, the only resource we got here is junk. Without that, people wouldn’t have anything to trade. They’d all have to leave.”

“And?”                                         

“The thing is, we get most of it up the road from the old rocket test site,” Manny explains. “But a bunch of ghouls showed up one day and took it over. We can’t get in there now.”

“And you want me to clear them out,” Eli finishes, rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you do it yourself, if it’s that important to you?”

“I would,” says Manny, “but I’ve got to watch the road. Caesar’s Legion has been taking territory just east of here. They took Nelson, man. If we let our guard down, they might attack. All it takes for the Legion is for them to sense weakness.”

“Alright, alright,” Eli waves a hand dismissively to shut him up, huffs in annoyance. “You care how this goes down in there?”

Not like it matters to him if Manny cares. He’s not the one risking his neck just to clear out some ghouls. But, if Manny trusts him, even in the slightest, he might be more willing to share everything he knows, so it’s an act he’s willing to play.

Manny shrugs, crosses his arms. “Doesn’t matter to me what you do. As long as the ghouls are out of there, that’s good enough for me.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Eli mumbles. He turns to leave, but suddenly gets an idea. An idea that could—hopefully, potentially—save him a lot of time. “You have a room here, yeah?”

He frowns, quirks an eyebrow. “Well, yeah. I mean, I live here.”

“Well, look,” Eli says, “if I’m doing this for you, I want to get some rest first. Think I could crash in your room, just for a few hours before I head out?”

Manny rubs at the back of his neck and shrugs. “Yeah, I mean. Sure. Why not? Wouldn’t want you to go in there when you’re not at your best. It’s on the bottom floor, room three.”

“Great,” Eli says, as cheery as he can possibly force himself to sound, and gives Manny a wink before he leaves without another word.

He heads out and down the stairs, passes Cliff without so much as a glance, and finds Manny’s room easily. He twists the doorknob experimentally and, surprisingly, the door swings open. Goddamn idiot, leaving his door unlocked, but he would have picked the lock even if Manny had been smart enough to lock his door behind him.

The room is rather spacious, simple decorations and furnishings, not much in the way of possessions, from what he can tell. Seems like Manny prefers the Spartan life, and he can’t say that he disagrees.

A terminal sits at the end of the room, directly in front of him, the screen glowing in the dark of the room. Eli crosses the room quickly and drops himself down into the desk chair with a sigh. He only finds one entry on the terminal, a message entitled “Khan Hospitality”. Sounds promising.

He reads through the message, once, twice, three times. Most of it doesn’t seem terribly important, just something about the Khans wanting Manny to run with them again, but two things do stand out.

The first, Boulder City. He knows the Khan’s next stop, and with any luck, he might be able to intercept them in time.

The second, a name.

Benny.

Is that this guy’s name? Benny?

It has to be.

This guy, the man who’d shot him in the head, ran with gangsters, traveled the Mojave in a checkered coat. His name is Benny.

 _Benny_.

Jesus Christ. Sounds like something you’d name a fucking dog.

The road to Boulder City is at least a twelve hour trip from here, and it’s been days since he’s eaten, even longer since he’s had any sleep. As much as he wants to get on the road immediately, he’s not entirely sure he’ll make it to Boulder City without stopping or even worse, passing out on the road.

As much as Eli doesn’t want to stop, he has to admit to himself that it’s better to waste a few hours sleeping than dying out on some highway in the middle of nowhere because he was too stubborn to stop and rest.

Besides, he’d told Manny he was going to crash here for a little while, anyways. Might as well take advantage of it.

He rubs at his temples, heaves a tired sigh. The headaches aren’t making things any easier on him. They’ve been nearly constant ever since he woke up a month ago, only brief respites from the pulsing, piercing pain.

It’s unbearable at times, when the pain is at its very worst, and at first he assumed it was just a temporary side effect of taking two bullets to the skull, but it’s been over a month. He thought maybe the headaches would have stopped by now, but lately he's been forced to face the fact that this just might be the new normal for him.

Eli pushes himself up from the chair, stretching his tired muscles with a groan. No point thinking about it too much. The headaches are what they are, and throwing a pity party isn’t going to make them go away.

He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, drops his bag on the floor carelessly, unlaces his boots. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last slept on an _actual_ bed with clean sheets, he realizes with a touch of grim amusement. Too long, really. Much too long.

Eli digs around in his bag for a moment and pulls out a bottle of whiskey and a vial of Med-X. He quickly injects the chems with a satisfied sigh, tosses the used needle to the other side of the room, and takes a long pull off the whiskey bottle.

It’s the only way he can sleep these days, high on chems and buzzed off his ass. It’s pathetic, the fact that he’s been reduced to this absolute mess of a human being, but it works, and that’s all that really matters in his book.

He lays back on the pillows and rolls over onto his side, crosses his arms. What will happen when this is all over? What will he do when he finally kills Benny and gets his revenge?

Truthfully, he hasn’t thought about it until now. He’s not sure he _wants_ to think about it, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s nice, having a purpose, something to keep him going every day, even if that motivation is pure spite.

Eli wonders if Benny has already forgotten about him. As far as he knows, Eli’s dead in the ground in Goodsprings. He probably hasn’t thought twice about him.

That’s fine. He’d rather Benny didn’t think about him at all. That will make it all the more satisfying when Eli finally finds him and keeps him alive just long enough to let him realize the depth of his complete and utter fuck up before he unloads all his ammo into his ugly head.

It won’t be long now. He’ll get his revenge soon. Soon, this will all be over.

He takes a sip of whiskey and closes his eyes. Soon.


	7. I've Got The World On A String

Boulder City looks like a fucking disaster.

Granted, most places look like a disaster these days, but still. Even relatively speaking, Boulder City looks like it got hit, and hit  _hard_. Every single building that he can see is absolutely decimated, nothing but a pathetic pile of rubble left in place.

Eli’s not sure what exactly went down here, but he’s glad he wasn’t around to see it happen.

The entire place is crawling with NCR soldiers, much to his disappointment. He’d been hoping that the NCR wouldn’t be anywhere near here, as he hasn’t exactly been on their good side lately, what with _accidentally_ activating that Archimedes thing, but apparently he ain’t that lucky.

With any luck, the soldiers here don’t know who he is or just don’t care and he can go about his business. He’d hate to have to kill every soldier in town. Sure would be a lot of work.

He makes his way to the front of the city and finds a soldier guarding the entrance. Damn.

The Great Khans are just inside the city, _just_ out of reach, and he’s not about to let one miserable soldier get in the way of that, so he makes straight for the entrance and tries to slide past him as casually as possible, but he stops Eli with an outstretched arm before he can enter the city, shakes his head once.

“We’ve got a situation with some Great Khans right now,” the soldier says. “The brass at McCarran has ordered me to lock down the ruins until it’s been resolved.”

“What’s going on?” Eli asks, eyebrow raised. “The Khans still alive?” Would be a shame if someone killed them before he got the chance to.

The soldier laughs darkly and crosses his arms. “Oh, they’re alive alright. One of my patrols was on its way back from Novac when it came under fire from those Great Khans in there. They radioed for reinforcements, but instead of waiting for us, they chased the Khans into the ruins where they were caught in a crossfire.” He wipes at his forehead with the back of his gloved hand, squints in an attempt to keep the late afternoon sun out of his eyes. “No deaths, but not all the squad got out. The Khans have Private Ackerman and Private Gilbert as hostages.”

Eli sighs and slides his hands in his pockets, digging around for his cigarettes and his lighter. “Look, I don’t care about your troops. I’m just here for the Khans.” He lights up and takes a pull, exhales the smoke in a short breath.

“Sorry, I’m under strict orders not to let any civilians inside," the soldier says, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he stops, eyes lit up as he tilts his head, like he’s suddenly got a brilliant idea.

Nothing good ever happens when people get that look around him. Usually, that’s when people try to ask him for favors or to throw himself head first into some outrageously dangerous situation, free of charge. Christ, he hates that look.

“You look like you can handle yourself,” the soldier says slowly. “You want the Khans? Go in, get my men out, and the Khans are yours to deal with.”

“You going to pay me?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not authorized to give payment, especially not to a civilian.”

Of course.

“But,” he continues, “like I said, you do this for me, I’ll look the other way while you take care of the Khans. Think of that as your reward, if you want.”

Eli drags a hand down his face, rubs at the back of his neck. He’s so close to finally finding the Khans and, with any luck, finding Benny, and this NCR asshole isn’t going to ruin it for him.

“Fine, fine,” Eli snaps, “I’ll do it, just shut up, yeah?”

“Great,” the soldier beams. “But look, the brass says the hostages are acceptable casualties, and I’m sure they have their reasons, but I don’t like it. You manage to get them out alive, I’ll be mighty grateful.”

Eli scoffs, takes a long drag off his cigarette. “No promises, buddy.”

“Guess that’s all I can really ask for,” he replies. “If we hear shooting, we’ll be coming in. Good luck.”

Eli reaches down to unclip his holster, just in case. He has no idea what to expect inside, whether it’ll be an immediate blood bath, or whether he’ll have a chance to talk to these Khans and squeeze every bit of information out of them before they die. Better to be prepared for a shootout than to walk in blind.

The ruins are eerily quiet as Eli makes his way inside, a squad of NCR troops silently stationed just inside the city. He doesn’t see anyone else around, which means the Khans are probably hiding. Whether they’re hiding and waiting to make a move or just waiting to see what he does, he can’t be sure, but he’s just glad that he wasn’t immediately greeted with a hail fire of bullets.

An old, half destroyed building sits at the other end of the compound, and it seems to be an easily defensible position, from what he can tell, anyway. If the leaders of this group of Khans were going to hole up anywhere with the hostages, that would be the most likely place.

Eli makes his way across the ruins and towards the old building, taking care to keep his footfalls quiet, and stops just in front of the door, listening for any sounds coming from inside. He doesn’t hear any noise, but he's smart enough to know that doesn't mean shit.

He opens the door and heads inside, and as one of the Khans turns to look at Eli, his face immediately falls and his eyes go wide. He doesn’t know this guy’s name, but he vaguely remembers him from that night in Goodsprings. At least, he thinks he does. The details of that night are still fuzzy, but his ugly orange mohawk and Khan getup look all too familiar.

Besides, kind of hard to forget a face that ugly.

“What the hell?” the man asks. “You’re that courier Benny wasted back in Goodsprings.” He shakes his head in disbelief, jaw hanging slack. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Eli smirks, takes a long pull off his cigarette. “I got better.”

“And here I thought us Great Khans were tough to kill,” he says, and Eli thinks he meant for it to be a joke, but he sounds positively scared shitless. Good. He ought to be.

“So,” the Khan says, “what happens now?”

A shrug. “What do you know about Benny?”

“Benny?" he parrots, brows furrowed. "He’s one of those Chairmen, big shots who run The Tops casino in New Vegas. A friend from the city contacted me with info on a big job.” He shakes his head, folds his arms across his chest. “I should’ve known that the caps were too good to be true, but there was no way I could pass up the chance.”

“Yeah, about that,” Eli says, a frown pulling at his mouth. “Weren’t y'all hanging around with him or something?”

The Khan scoffs. “We were, until Benny stole the Platinum Chip and stabbed us in the back. He’s probably back at the Strip by now, laughing at me.”

“So, if I’m getting this right,” Eli says, eyebrow raised, “he used you guys as meat shields until you were close enough to Vegas that he thought he could get back by himself, then he took that chip and left without paying up? That about it?”

“Yeah,” the Khan laughs shakily, “that’s about it.”

He’d almost be impressed, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was out for Benny’s blood. It’s what he would have done, turned on the Khans and left without giving them a single cent.

Not impressed enough to reconsider killing him, of course. He seems like a guy willing to do whatever is necessary to get what he wants, and he always appreciates that in a person, but it doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things, and it won’t make any difference for him in the end. He’s still a coward and Eli’s still going to kill him.

“Look,” the Khan says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a lighter. “I got a souvenir for you. It’s Benny’s lighter.” He holds it out for Eli to take and he eyes him for a moment before plucking it out of his hand with quick fingers.

The metal is cool and smooth against his fingertips, and he runs his thumb over the worn engraving on the face of the lighter before looking back up at the Khan. “You stole this from him?”

“Right before he took off,” he nods. “But, hey? Do me a favor, will you?” He pauses and squares his shoulders, a grin pulling at his lips. “Shove it up his ass when you catch up with him.”

 Eli smirks and puts the lighter in his pocket, gives him a nod. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“About Benny?” the Khan asks and shakes his head. “I told you everything I know. Honest.”

Eli purses his lips and shrugs. “I believe you.”

The Khan looks relieved for a moment, but Eli quickly draws his gun and shoots him in the chest, point blank.

He drops to the ground and another Khan runs out of a room in the back and immediately fires off a shot that grazes Eli left arm. He hisses with pain and instinctively reaches to cradle the wound, and the Khan takes advantage of this, knocking Eli to the floor with a solid punch to the face.

He grabs Eli by the collar, throws him onto his back, and punches him again and again and again, over and over and over. He can feel blood pouring from his nose and down his face and he tries to fight back, but the Khan keeps knocking the wind out of him and he can’t think properly and he’s not sure where his gun went after he fell.

“You killed Jessup,” the Khan shouts between punches. “You fucking killed Jessup. _You killed Jessup_.”

He’s pretty sure his nose is broken at this point. It feels like it, at least.

Eli tries to punch and kick at the man, but he doesn’t so much as blink at Eli's attempts to fight back. This is going to end badly, really, really badly, if he doesn’t get this asshole off him.

He quickly slides a hand into his jacket pocket, fishing around for his knife. The Khan doesn’t seem to notice this, or maybe he doesn’t care at this point.

Finally, after a desperate moment of searching between the fresh pains of each punch, his fingers find the hilt of his knife and he flicks the blade out in one deft movement and buries it in the man’s neck. He lets out a pathetic gurgling noise and Eli stabs him, again and again and doesn’t stop until he’s no longer breathing.

Eli shoves the dead Khan’s body to the side and pushes himself up to a sitting position, burying his head in his hands. He’s sickeningly dizzy, the pain unbelievable, and the bullet wound on his arm stings like a son of a bitch. Every inch of his face feels swollen and bruised, and he when touches his nose tentatively to assess the damage, he yells out a choked cry of pain.

Fuck. Definitely broken.

But, aside from the fact that he’s covered in blood and his face probably looks like a disaster and his hands are shaking violently, he’s fine. The Khans are dead and he knows where to find Benny.

He leans back against the wall and takes a shaky breath, wipes at his mouth with the sleeve of his arm. Vegas isn’t much farther from here. He could be there tonight, early tomorrow morning at the latest. This whole mess could be over in just a matter of days.

The thought is comforting, to say the least. He’s ready for this to be over. This was fun at first, but he’s had enough of this endless wild goose chase, the playing nice just to get information out of people, the constant, agonizing pain. It’s too much, it’s all too goddamn much, and he doesn’t want it to continue for longer than necessary.

At this point, the only thing Eli wants is his revenge.


	8. Dear Hearts And Gentle People

It doesn't take Eli long for him to come to the conclusion that he absolutely, in no uncertain terms, hates Freeside.

The walls are too high, too oppressive, the streets too noisy. No matter where he goes, no matter the time of day, everyone is just too _loud_. So far, the only redeeming quality this place seems to have is the multitude of cheap bars on nearly every street.

It’s only been a few weeks now since he rolled into town, and in that short amount of time, he’s gotten to be pretty well acquainted with the city and its inhabitants. He never meant to stay here long term, but he hadn’t been counting on the two thousand cap credit check to get into the Strip. Fucking unbelievable.

Every time he thinks he’s close to finally catching up to Benny, something _else_ happens that throws a wrench in his plans. Benny is so close, so goddamn  _close_ , and he can’t get to him until he can manage to scrape together enough caps to buy his way on the Strip. Even Mick and Ralph’s five hundred cap fake passports are way out of reach. Over three weeks in town and he’s still got less than a hundred caps to his name. Nearly a month’s worth of work and almost nothing to show for it.

It’s embarrassing, to be so close to his goal and yet still, somehow, so, so far.

Even so, things haven’t been all bad. He’s made a bit of a name for himself on the streets and the Kings have taken him into their ranks with surprisingly little resistance, The King himself already taking quite a shine to him. Eli’s done him a lot of favors for very little payment, but getting to take his dog around everywhere makes things pretty close to even in Eli’s book.

Still. Having Rex around is nice, great even, but he needs cold hard caps. At least Rex makes the days a little more bearable, and he’s not so bad in a scrap, either. The King wasn’t kidding when he said the dog hates people with hats, that’s for sure.

The old Mormon Fort is buzzing with activity today, every Follower doctor he passes busy running about, moving from patient to patient in a frenzied rush. The Followers aren’t the type of people he would normal associate with, but they’re generous with supplies and their medical care, and he’s more than happy to take advantage of that generosity.

Farkas is always the one who gives Eli the free stimpaks, but she’s not anywhere to be found, which isn’t particularly surprising, considering how busy the place is today. He’s not terribly concerned with that, though. Doesn’t matter how busy they are. Farkas said he would get a free stim every day and Eli fully intends on keeping her to that.

He spots a Follower he hasn’t seen around here before, a young, fair-haired guy in glasses, sitting in a chair just outside one of the medical tents. “Hey,” Eli calls out to him, “you seen Farkas?”

The Follower looks up and frowns, furrows his thick brow. “She’s busy with other patients,” he says, “but, if you’re looking for medical help, try the other doctors. One of them should have time to help you.”

“Not looking for treatment,” Eli says, shaking his head. “Supposed to get a free stimpak from her.”

He nods, folds his arms across his chest. “Well, it’ll be awhile, but I suppose you could wait around for her to finish.”

“Look, I don’t have all day,” Eli snaps. “You got a stim you can give me now so I can just go on my way?”

The Follower quirks an eyebrow at his outburst, gives him a frown. “I don’t have any on me, and I’m definitely not authorized to give out supplies for free. I’m just a researcher,” he explains. “Not even a particularly good one,” he adds, the self-deprecation thick in his tone.

“Why just research?” Eli asks. “Seems like you guys need more doctors than scientists or whatever.”

He shrugs. “I’m not exactly what you would call a people person.”

“Yeah,” Eli chuckles, “that makes two of us, buddy.”

“Besides, I’m fine doing research back here, even if it is a bit boring,” he says. “And pointless.” He drags a hand down his face with a defeated sigh, slumps back in his chair. “And a complete waste of time.”

Christ, the guy’s having an existential crisis right in front of him. “You, uh…” He pauses, gestures at him vaguely. “You doing alright, buddy?”

For a moment, he looks at Eli like he’d almost forgotten he was there. “Oh, don’t mind me,” he sighs, “I’m just voicing my thoughts so they don’t burrow out of my skull in a fit of abject despondency.”

Man, and Eli thought _his_ life was pathetic.

And just like that, he has an idea. It’s not something he would ever consider under any other circumstances for any reason whatsoever, but he’s desperate to get onto the Strip at this point, and he has a funny feeling this Follower might be of some use to him. So, Eli swallows his pride, shoves his hands in his pockets, and asks the man plainly, “You want to come with me?”

He looks taken aback at the sudden proposition, perhaps understandably so, and it takes a moment for him to compose himself enough to reply. “No offense intended,” he says slowly, “but why should I go anywhere with you?”

Eli doesn’t exactly have an argument prepared, so he just shrugs casually. “You want to help people, yeah? I could use some help.”

The Follower narrows his eyes and leans forward. “Exactly what kind of help are you referring to here? Because if it’s anything to do with the Legion, I’ll pass, thanks.”

“God no,” says Eli. “I hate those creeps. I just meant…” He trails off, shrugs. “I just meant, you know, that I could use some help staying alive out there.”

“So, what? You want me to be your own personal doctor?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Eli mumbles, rolling his eyes.

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “I need more to go on than vague promises.”

“Look,” Eli snaps, “not really in the business of telling strangers my life story, yeah?” He stops and takes a deep breath, rubs at his forhead. “But, if you really want to know why I need help, then I’ll tell you. Just not here, yeah?”

He gestures for Eli to continue. “By all means. Enlighten me. No one around here has the time to eavesdrop.”

It takes every ounce of his self-control to stop himself from lashing out, and he clenches his jaw, closes his eyes. There’s a reason he doesn’t do this, this whole travelling with other people thing. People ask too many questions, questions he doesn’t want to answer.

But, if answering the guy’s questions makes him trust Eli more, then he supposes it’s worth it in the long run.

“I’m chasing someone down,” Eli says. “He, uh. He took something from me. He needs to pay.”

The Follower leans back in his chair, raises an eyebrow. “So, assuming I'm understanding you correctly," he says, "you want me to follow you around and keep you patched up while you raze the Mojave on a quest for vengeance?”

Eli sighs. “Just look at me,” he says, gesturing to himself. “I’m a doctor’s worst nightmare, pal. I’m using fucking chems and alcohol as duct tape just to keep myself together long enough to get through the day.”

God, this is turning into a therapy session, and the worst part is that he’s not lying to him. It’s pathetic. He’s better than this, and he knows it, but man, if it isn’t hard to keep himself going sometimes.

“Look,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face, “you pretend that shit didn’t just happen, I don’t ask any personal questions, we keep the talking to a minimum, and I think we can help each other out.” He pauses and gives him a one-armed shrug. “You in?”

The Follower purses his lips and hums, tilts his head. He seems to consider it for a long moment, but then he smiles and gives Eli a shrug. “Alright, I’m in. But only because you asked so nicely, and you’re not terribly bad-looking, either.”

“ _Not terribly bad-looking_?” Eli repeats. “Screw you, too, buddy.”

The Follower raises his brows. “And he’s charming, too. Whatever will I do with myself.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Eli snaps. He raises his eyebrows and jerks his head towards the Fort’s entrance, snaps at Rex to get his attention. “Let’s get going, yeah?”

“Let’s,” the Follower repeats, motioning for Eli to lead the way. “There are people out there to help, things to learn.” A shrug. “Maybe not in that order, but let’s get to it.”

This is a really horrible idea, bringing this guy along with him. He’ll probably regret it in just a few short hours, and he might have to get rid of him, or maybe even kill him, but he’ll deal with that later.

It would be a bit of a shame if he had to kill him, though. He seems… interesting.

Not that he cares, of course. He’s here for one thing and one thing only, and whether or not he’s interesting is irrelevant.

The Follower doesn’t speak until they’re well out of the camp and on the streets of Freeside, walking along in silence. Eli sees his companion looking at him out of the corner of his eye and he sighs, braces himself for whatever outrageously personal questions he’s preparing to throw Eli’s way.

“So,” he starts, “you ever going to tell me your name? Or is this just part of the whole 'mysterious wandering stranger' bit?”

Eli shrugs. “Is my name important?”

“Potentially,” he says. “It would help to know what to put on your grave if you happen to die horribly.”

Eli turns to look at him, eyebrow raised. “You planning on killing me?”

He laughs. “No. I don’t think so, anyway.” A shrug. “We’ll see.”

Silence falls between them again, and for a moment it seems as though he’s decided to drop the topic, but he turns to look at Eli again, apparently deciding he’s not giving up quite so easily. “Seriously though. Just your name.”

He huffs, avoiding the man's eyes. “It’s Eli.”

“Eli,” he repeats. “Huh. Not what I would have guessed, but it suits you.”

Eli pulls a frown. “Thanks?”

“Oh, it’s a compliment,” he reassures. “I’m Arcade Gannon, by the way. And before you ask, yes, that is my real name, and no, I don’t know what my mother was thinking when she named me.”

Eli sighs. “Listen, your name could be Ugly Fuck and I wouldn’t give a shit,” he says. “Long as you keep me alive, don’t much care what your name is.”

“Fair enough,” Arcade says. “One other thing I’m curious about, though. Who exactly is it that you—or we, rather—are chasing down?”

For a moment, Eli considers lying to him, making up some bullshit story. He doesn’t need to know the exact details. His job is just to keep Eli alive, nothing more, nothing less. But, for some reason, Eli decides to tell him the truth.

“You know the Tops casino in Vegas?” he starts.

Arcade nods. “I might have heard of it.”

“Right. Well, the owner,” he says. “Name’s Benny. I had something Benny wanted and he shot me in the head to get it.”

“He shot you in the head?” Arcade repeats.

A nod. “Twice.”

“Wow. How did you manage to live through that one?”

A shrug. “I’m hard to kill, I guess,” Eli says.

“Maybe. Seems like you still take a lot of hits, though.”

Eli hums and reaches up to brush the bandages on the bridge of his nose. The swelling has mostly gone down in the weeks since Boulder City, but the bruising is still present, the pain an ever-present dull ache. It’s not even the worst injury he’s endured since he left Goodsprings, more a mild annoyance than anything.

Still, he’d rather not repeat the experience if possible.

“Look,” says Arcade, “I’m not a miracle worker. To be perfectly honest, I’m really not a terribly good medic. I’ll do my best to keep you going, but I’m not entirely certain I can bring you back from the dead.”

Eli gives him a terse nod. “Good enough for me.”

He has no idea how long this… partnership of sorts will last. Until Gannon’s stopped being useful to him, most likely. He can’t imagine keeping him around longer than necessary.

But, unfortunately, as much as Eli hates to admit it, for the time being, he needs Gannon’s help.


	9. Return To Sender

The Strip is bustling with activity as the sun sets over the Mojave, crowds of people flooding the streets to enjoy the night life. The lights are bright, the music blaring, the air thick and heavy with the smell of alcohol, and though he still doesn’t have most of his memories back, he’s fairly certain he’s never seen anything quite like this.

It took him a long time to get here, nearly two full months of saving up every cap he and Gannon could scrounge up, but he's here now. He's finally here.

It’s almost surreal, this whole city, the way its inhabitants desperately cling to a way of life that was dead and gone long before any of them were born. Eli doesn’t understand it, any of it. Why people come here to waste their caps and their time, why they throw their lives away for a few short days of decadence and luxury.

Gannon had mentioned once that most people who visited Vegas came to get away from their lives and the wasteland, but being here on the Strip just makes him miss the open road and the quiet solitude of the desert. Vegas is too loud, too radiant, too _much_. How anyone can stand it here is way beyond him.

The Tops is by far the most popular place on the Strip tonight, a constant stream of people clutching onto their bags of caps making their way into the casino. Eli shoves his way through the crowd loitering around the entrance and makes his way inside, taking in the surroundings.

The lobby is large and open, a desk manned by two men in crisp suits in the center of the room, tables and chairs arranged along the outer walls.  One of the men at the desk gives Eli a dazzling grin. "Hey, baby," he says cheerfully, "welcome to the Tops Hotel and Casino. I’m going to have to ask you to hand over any weapons you might be carrying.”

Eli forces a tight smile and steps up to the desk, takes off his messenger bag and drops it onto the counter unceremoniously, reaches inside his jacket to remove his pistols from their shoulder holsters. Best just play along for right now, follow their rules, don’t let them suspect anything is up.

“Security reasons, you dig it?”

Eli just nods.

Before leaving the Lucky 38, he'd stowed away his switchblade and a silenced .22 in the inner pocket of his jacket. If the man decides to give him a pat down and finds his holdout weapons, he won’t hesitate to grab his guns from his bag and take out everyone to get to the man he came here for. It would be messy and more work than he really had the energy for, but he’d do it if he had to.

Or, you know, he'd at least give it a good try.

Luckily, the man doesn’t seem interested in patting Eli down and just takes his guns and hands them off to another man in a similarly crisp suit. “Smooth and easy, baby, just the way I like it.”

“You keep them locked up, yeah?” he asks.

“Don’t worry,” he reassures, “they’ll be safe as kittens until you’re ready to leave. We’ll keep them locked up in the bank upstairs, right next to the money. It’s serious protection.”

“Ah. Good,” Eli nods. “Good to know.” At least he knows where to get his weapons back, in case things go south.

Eli looks over and sees the other man at the desk watching him with intent eyes, and his gaze makes Eli's skin crawl, so he shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to enter the main casino, but the man calls out, “Hey, baby, hold up a minute, yeah?”

Eli stops dead in his tracks, and for a moment Eli thinks the guy’s on to him, but he looks back at him over his shoulder and the man just says, ever so casually, “I ain’t seen you on the Strip before. You new around here?”

Eli turns and gives him a shrug. “Maybe," he says.

“Well,” the man grins, “you stick with me, baby. I’ll make sure your time here is _the tops_ , you dig?”

His eyes roll involuntarily and he walks back over to the desk, leans against the counter. “You say that to everyone who walks in here?”

“Nah, baby,” he beams. “Just the handsome ones.”

Eli frowns and shakes his head, taps his fingers on the counter. “That the best you got?”

“Baby, I can’t lay all my cards down upfront, now can I?” He purses his lips, gives him a shrug. “Got to save some for later in the game.”

Eli gives him a scoff, choosing to ignore his ham-fisted attempts at flirtation. “So. Who are you?”

“Name’s Swank, baby,” he says, gives Eli a dazzling toothy grin. “This here’s my place.”

Eli frowns, raises an eyebrow. “I thought Benny ran the place.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves a hand dismissively, “he oversees the business, sure, but I run the Tops day-to-day.”

Eli hums in reply. “Speaking of Benny,” he says casually, “he in today?”

Swank’s face falls and furrows his brow, gives Eli a frown. “You here to see the boss?”

“I’m, uh,” he shrugs, “sort of an old friend.”

“Oh, Christ,” Swank sighs, mutters something under his breath that Eli doesn’t catch, jerks a thumb back behind him. “He’s out on the main floor, yeah?”

Eli nods, not bothering to pretend like he cares enough to say farewell, lighting up a cigarette as he makes his way into the main casino floor.

The Tops is packed, gamblers gathered around nearly every table and slot machine. The buzz of chatter and laughter fills the room, the smell of cigarette smoke thick in the air.

He’s in the corner of the room, leaning against the handrail around the upper level of the floor. Four body guards stationed around him, just like House said. Eli takes another drag, blows out the smoke in a heavy exhale. He remembers House’s suggestion to try to get him alone where his guards can’t save him, take him by surprise. Killing him in full view of the whole casino is Eli’s preferred method, but his guards are no doubt armed with something more potent than a suppressed pistol and a knife, so while it’s the preferable method, it certainly isn’t practical.

Not like he’s usually one to be concerned about what’s practical and what’s not, but he’s exhausted and running purely on spite and chems, and as much as he’d like to start a bloodbath in the middle of the place, he’d rather not embarrass himself by getting shot to shit by a couple of pricks in ugly suits.

Right. Get him alone it is.

Eli makes his way down the steps, down the center of the main floor, pushing past the people crowded around the gambling tables, eyes fixed on him, not letting him out of his sight. Eli’s halfway through the room before he looks up, and his eyes go wide, jaw slack. He stands up straight, blinks a few times, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

Eli stops a few feet in front of him, takes a puff of smoke, blows it in his direction. “Benny.”

It takes him a few seconds to get his expression back under control, and he forces a smile, puts his hands in his pockets. “It’s Eli, yeah?”

A nod. “Nice of you to remember,” he says flatly.

“I got to say, baby,” he drawls as he gives Eli the once over, “you look good for dead.”

He shrugs. “Maybe your aim ain’t as good as you thought.”

“Or maybe you just got a thick skull,” he counters. “Believe me, baby, I hit was I was aiming for.”

Eli takes one last deep drag and flicks his cigarette down onto the dingy tile, moves up the steps to the upper level of the floor to stand in front of Benny. His eyes are narrow, watching Eli’s every move, but he doesn’t question him.

“You know,” Eli says, taps him on the chest and looks up at him through his eyelashes, “after you shot me, you ran off so fast I never got your name. Took me months just to find out any information on the…” he pauses, purses his lips, pretending to search for the right word to play up the drama, “ _…mysterious_ man I was chasing.”

Benny blinks, quirks an eyebrow. “You making a pass at me, pally? Because I’m out of your league.”

Eli’s hands fiddle with Benny’s tie, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Is that so?”

Benny eyes him with suspicion, but doesn’t stop Eli’s hands on his chest, doesn’t step away from him. He’s intrigued, Eli can tell. Or at least morbidly curious. “You came all this way for something, baby.”

“Yeah. I came all this way to see you,” he tells him. It isn’t a lie, not really. He _did_ come all this way to see him. He came to put a bullet in his head and see him dead on the ground. Benny doesn’t need to know that now, though, not just yet. He’ll find out soon enough.

“Baby, I’m touched, believe me, but…” he shakes his head in disbelief, “you sure those bullets didn’t scramble your egg?”

“What, you think it’s wrong for me to want a guy who’d shoot me in the head?”

He gives a short chuckle. “That’s one word for it, babe.”

“So I’ll be wrong, then,” he says simply.

For a moment, Eli thinks he might not be falling for his half-assed attempt at charm, but he takes a hand out of his pocket and brushes Eli’s hip, a ghost of a touch. “You’re one sick pussycat, baby. There’s quins and then there’s… I don’t even know what to call you,” he says, voice soft.

Eli hums. “Well, I dig you, even after everything you’ve done.” His fingers trail up to the collar of Benny’s shirt, knuckles skimming the tender skin at his neck. “So, what do you say?”

Benny chuckles, raises an eyebrow. “I hear dig from you, babe, and all I can think of is a shovel. How can this be?" he asks, shakes his head. "This ain’t forgiveness, it’s something… wrong.”

He drops his hand from Benny’s chest and shrugs. “Alright. I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”

“Hey,” he says, almost immediately.

And Eli knows he’s got him.

Benny closes the remaining space between them, and Eli has to crane his neck to hold Benny’s gaze. “How about you and me’s cash out, take this upstairs to my suite.”

His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, and Eli feels a rush of… something. Adrenaline? Excitement? Whatever it is, it leaves him feeling a little unsettled, so he pushes it to the side and gives Benny a smile. “Lead the way.”

Benny motions for him to follow and he hears one of Benny’s bodyguards scoff as the two of them pass by. Whether the guard is surprised or amused, he can’t tell, but he sends him a hard glare as he walks by. Eli’s certain they were all watching the scene unfold with prying eyes and keen ears. He hadn’t exactly gone for subtlety, however, so it couldn’t have been hard to infer what was going on.

The lack of subtlety was on purpose, of course. If Benny’s guards thought he was busy upstairs with someone in his room, they wouldn’t go looking for him, and Eli could grab his things out of the safe and be miles out of Vegas before anyone knew what had actually transpired.

He takes them down the side of the main casino floor, turns right down a hallway until they reach a line of elevators, and they stop in front of one halfway down the hall. He jabs the call button with his thumb and the doors slide open with the groan of rusted steel, and he ushers Eli inside, strolls in behind him. Benny hits the button for the thirteenth floor and the doors close and the ancient lift slowly starts to rise.

He’s silent the entire time, but Eli can see Benny staring at him out of the corner out of his eye, not even bothering to hide his eyes taking him in, raking up and down his body. Eli’s almost amused at how easy it was to get him alone, how quickly he fell for his act. It’s true that he hardly knows anything about Benny, other than the very little House had shared, but he had at least expected him to take a little more convincing to get alone with the person he’d shot in the head only a few months prior.

Eli balls his hands into tight fists, focuses on the feeling of his nails digging into his gloved palms. God, he hates elevators, but he doesn’t think he could have convinced Benny to take the stairs.

Or maybe he could have. From what he’s seen so far, Benny seems almost laughably gullible.

After a long, silent minute, they arrive at the thirteenth floor, Benny’s shoulder grazing Eli’s as they exit the elevator together and he says, voice low in Eli’s ear, “Here we are, baby.”

A guard passes as they make their way to Benny’s suite and gives him a stiff nod and a curt, “Boss.” Benny simply nods back in acknowledgement, and the man doesn’t spare Eli more than a glance before continuing his patrol.

He brings the two of them to a set of double doors and reaches in his pocket, pulls out a ring of keys, and the slight trembling of his hands as he unlocks the door doesn’t escape Eli’s notice. He pushes the door open and his palm finds the small of Eli’s back, guiding him inside with a surprisingly gentle touch.

Eli scans the room, taking a quick survey of the surroundings. The suite is large and open, a fireplace on the left wall, a set of couches arranged around a small coffee table. A bar and a pair of stools sit on the right side of the room, the soft staticky croons of Dean Martin coming from the radio on the counter.

He hears the lock click, the scuff of Benny’s shoes against the carpet as he moves to stand behind Eli, and then feels Benny’s touch on his neck, lightly skimming the skin there with his knuckles.

“Is this okay?” he asks, fingers gently massaging Eli's neck.

They’re alone. Eli has him completely unawares. He could end this right now.

“Yeah,” says Eli. “Good. It’s good.”

He feels Benny’s breath on the back of his neck, then his lips are on Eli’s skin, just behind the shell of his ear, and he shivers.

“What about this?” Benny asks. “This okay, baby?”

They’re alone. There’s no reason to continue this. He could end this right now, drop the charade and kill him right now.

Truth be told, he’s not entirely sure if it _is_ a charade anymore.

“Yeah,” he says again, voice rough and hoarse. “That’s okay.”

He hums, kisses behind Eli’s ear again, and again. His kisses are soft, slowly trailing down his neck to his shoulder, fingers pulling back Eli’s shirt to expose more skin for his lips to brush.

Eli knows he should stop him, he really, _really_ should stop him, but his hands feel nice and everywhere he touches leaves his skin burning, and he really, _really_ doesn’t want him to stop.

Benny’s hand moves down to grasp Eli’s hip, his kisses quickly becoming more feverish and rushed, and if he doesn’t stop this now things are going to escalate _fast_ , so he whips around, grabs Benny by the lapels of his coat, and throws him against the closest wall.

Benny grunts from the impact and he can tell he’s nearly knocked the wind out of him. All Eli would have to do is grab the switchblade out of his jacket and slit Benny’s throat. He could kill Benny in cold blood, right here, right now. He’s waited for this moment for months now, thought about it every day, his thirst for revenge and sheer spite his driving motivation, and Eli’s got him here now, finally.

And he can’t bring himself to do it.

As sick and wrong as it is, Eli actually wants him. And he wants Eli, too, that much he’s made perfectly clear. It’s wrong, _so wrong_ , and Eli knows sleeping with him is a terrible idea, but rational thought has no place in his mind at the moment, it seems.

 Benny snakes his arms around Eli’s waist with a sly grin, pulls him close. He tightens his grip on Benny’s coat, not letting his eyes fall from Benny’s.

“Ready to get right down to it, yeah?” he breathes. He’s close, _so close_ , his face just inches from Eli’s.

He’s breathing heavily, his nostrils flared.

He could end this right now.

Eli wets his lips, returns Benny’s grin with one of his own. “You know it.”

He gives Eli’s waist a squeeze and nods towards the door at the back of the room. “Bed’s that way, baby.”

Eli pulls them off the wall, gives him a push towards the bedroom, and Benny pulls Eli with him, each practically stumbling over the other in their haste. Benny sheds his coat along the way, tossing it on the sofa as they pass by, and Eli kicks off his boots, pulls off his gloves, slides his Pip-Boy off his arm and lets it fall to the floor carelessly.

Eli backs him up against the bedroom door and Benny reaches blindly for the doorknob, throws the door open, and he walks them inside until the back of Benny’s legs hit the bed. Eli shoves him back onto the mattress and shrugs out of his jacket, throws it blindly into the corner, and climbs onto Benny, straddles his waist. Benny moans as Eli settles his weight on Benny’s lap, and fuck, the sound does things to him that he didn’t expect. Eli grabs Benny by his necktie, pulls him up to his level and whispers in his ear, “I like bad boys, and you’ve been downright _awful_.”

He feels a shudder run through Benny and then his lips are back on Eli’s neck, his hands fumbling for the button on Eli’s jeans. This can only end in disaster, Eli knows that, and Benny probably knows that too, but neither of them can quite bring themselves to care.


	10. Atom Bomb Baby

“I have your lighter,” Eli says, nonchalant.

He hears the pillow rustle as Benny turns his head to look at Eli, raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

A nod. “One of those Khans you hired. Jessup, I think?” He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. He gave it to me when I met him in Boulder City.”

Benny huffs in annoyance and takes a long drag from his cigarette, shakes his head. “Couple of finks, those two. Can’t trust squares like them as far as you can throw them. I’m glad you were the one to take them out, baby. Seems only fair.”

He clenches his jaw, shoots Benny a hard glare. “They weren’t the ones who shot me in the face,” he says after a moment, not bothering to hide the annoyed edge in his voice.

Benny props himself up on one elbow and looks down at Eli with a furrowed brow. The cigarette hangs loosely from his lips and his hair is a mess, stuck up in every direction, some of the strands stuck to his forehead with sweat, his neck covered with a collection of red and purple bruises. Eli feels an odd sense of satisfaction at being the one to undo him so thoroughly, the one to turn him from perfectly coifed business man to disheveled disaster with minimal effort.

Eli wonders if Benny’s just that easy to please or if he’s really that good, and he thinks that it’s probably a bit of both.

He takes one last pull from his cigarette and leans over Eli to stamp it out on the ashtray on the dresser, his hand falling to the bed and moving to idly trace one of the scars on Eli’s shoulder. “Baby,” he says, a lopsided smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, “if this is your idea of pillow talk, it needs some work.”

A dry, humorless laugh leaves Eli’s lips and he closes his eyes, rubs them with the heels of his palms. “Guess so.”

Eli feels more than hears him chuckle, and Benny’s hand moves from Eli’s shoulder to ghost over the fresh bruises peppering his neck and up to cup his cheek. When Eli opens his eyes, Benny’s face is mere inches from his, and Benny’s gaze flicks down to Eli’s lips.

He had made a point not to kiss Benny on the lips while they fucked, to keep things purely physical. A kiss felt too intimate for a one night stand, or whatever this mess was. For a moment, it seems like Benny’s going to kiss him, and his heart skips a beat, but then Benny brushes his thumb over the scar that cuts through Eli’s upper lip and asks, “How’d you get this scar, baby?”

Eli shrugs. “Don’t remember.”

Benny purses his lips and hums in reply, his fingers moving to the knotted scar on his forehead, tracing it down to where it bisects his left eyebrow. “And this one?”

“Don’t remember,” he repeats.

A nod. “I know how you got these ones, though,” Benny says, tracing the long scars across Eli’s chest, just under the swell of his pecs. “Got a matching pair,” he smiles.

Eli lifts a hand to do the same, runs his fingers along the thin, faded scars on Benny’s chest. Benny’s are a little more weathered than Eli’s, a little more puckered and stretched, but they’re nice under his fingers, and he stays like that for a while, running his fingers back and forth over Benny’s scars.

Benny smirks, moves from Eli’s chest to the scar that rests at the top of his nose, next to his brow, and taps it lightly with his index finger. “Well, how about this one?”

Eli shakes his head. “Like I said earlier. Don’t remember.”

Realization finally starts to sink in and Benny nods again, slowly this time, his gaze flicking to meet Eli’s. His hand moves back to the scar on Eli’s lip, absentmindedly running his thumb back and forth over the puckered skin. “Those bullets did a real number on the old noggin, huh?”

“Yeah,” he snaps, “getting shot in the head will do that to you.”

Benny laughs at that. “I wouldn’t know, baby. Never been shot in the head.”

“You should try it sometime,” Eli deadpans. “Lots of fun.”

“Listen, no offense," Benny says, "but I’ll just take your word for it, hey? This mug is too pretty to let someone pump it full of lead.”

“Oh, but it was perfectly fine to put two rounds in my head,” he says.

“Aw, baby,” Benny says with an exaggerated pout, “you mad at me? It was just business, you know.”

“Christ,” Eli mutters, “you always this much of an ass?”

Benny frowns. “I prefer to think of it as part of my charm.”

“Charm? That what you call it?”

“Baby,” Benny drawls, “you’re killing me over here.”

Eli shrugs, rolls his eyes. “You make it too easy.”

An odd silence falls between them, heavy and uncomfortable. They've only spent a limited amount of time together, but this is the first time there's been a moment of silence between them, and he's not sure how to react to it. Sex, he can handle just fine, if he does say so himself. Silence, now, that's another thing entirely, and Eli feels like he needs to say something, anything, to break the quiet, but Benny beats him to it when he says, “So, baby, you got to clue me in. How is it that you’re still alive?”

“I don’t know,” Eli says. “Just takes more than two bullets to kill me.”

Benny hums, gives Eli a nod. “Yeah, I believe it, baby. But you ain’t expecting me to believe you just dug yourself out of the ground and high-tailed it straight to Vegas.”

“And what if I did?” Eli asks. “What if that’s exactly what happened?”

“Well, if that’s the case, then I’d say you really are one crazy cat.”

Eli raises his eyebrows, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’m just built sturdy.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Benny scoffs. “But really, baby, spill. What’s the story?”

“Don’t really know,” he sighs, rubs at his brow. “I mean, I know a securitron dug me up and a doctor in Goodsprings put me back together. But I don’t know how I survived. Always sort of assumed that taking a couple rounds to the head was pretty certain death but... guess not.”

“Wait, a securitron?” Benny asks. “House was onto me from word go?”

Eli doesn’t reply, just nods.

“Shit,” he breathes, drags a hand down his face. “And here I thought I was being so clever.”

“But apparently not,” Eli finishes.

Benny rolls his eyes dramatically, sighs loudly. “No, please, don’t sugarcoat it, baby. Tell me what you really think.”

“It’s just the truth,” Eli shrugs. “House is an asshole, but he was way ahead of you. He learned about your plan and had one of them TVs on wheels there waiting to dig me up once you and your pals left.”

Benny’s quiet for a moment, his eyes studying Eli’s face, like he’s looking for something. What he’s looking for, he’s not sure, but he stares right back, not letting his gaze fall from Benny’s. After a few long seconds, he brings his hand back up to rest on Eli’s cheek, fingers sweeping over his scars. “So, one of House’s pets sees you’re still kicking, a doc patches you up, and you’re right back on your feet. Once you were vertical, how’d you track me down?”

Eli shrugs. “I’m persistent, that’s all.”

“I’ll say.”

“Besides,” Eli continues, “you don’t exactly blend in. Someone sees a guy in a checkered suit going through town, they tend to remember.”

“What you got against the suit?” he asks, visibly affronted. “You’re hurting my feelings here, baby.”

 Eli shakes his head, laughs dryly. “Don’t have anything against it. Made it easier to track your ass down.”

“Well,” Benny says, “here you are.”

“Here I am,” says Eli.

Benny pauses for a moment, and Eli can tell from the way his lips are pursed, brows furrowed, that he’s trying to figure out the best way to ask an uncomfortable question. “So, uh,” he reaches up to scratch at the light stubble on his chin, immediately moving his hand back to rest at Eli’s cheek. “You got nothing from before the bullets?”

Eli shrugs. “I sort of remember waking up on the ground and getting shot. And I remember you and that fucking suit.”

Benny gives Eli a look at that, but doesn’t interrupt, waits for him to finish.

“I remember my name,” he continues, “and… bits and pieces of stuff that I assume are memories from my old life, but…” he trails off, shrugs again. “Other than that… nothing.” He can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on, his thoughts immediately jumping to the vials of Med-X in his jacket, but he takes a deep breath and resists the urge, if only just.

Benny doesn’t say anything, just brushes his thumb over Eli’s lip, back and forth. Several minutes pass that way, his fingers tracing Eli’s scars, occasionally moving down to press one of the bruises on his neck. His touch is light, almost gentle. It’s… oddly soothing.  

This whole thing, sleeping with him, being here in bed with him, it’s a mistake, a lapse in judgment. Eli knows he should have taken him out the second he saw him across the casino floor. He shouldn’t have even said a word to him, just pulled the trigger and put an end to it. He should be long gone, maybe in some shitty bar having a celebratory drink for finally taking out the bastard that shot him. It was all just one big mistake, but Eli finds, to his slight horror, that he can’t bring himself to actually regret it.

It’s an unsettling feeling, realizing that he enjoyed sleeping with the man who shot him in the head, buried him in a shallow grave, and left him for dead. He feels like he should be angry at himself for ending up in this situation, or at least feel some twinge of regret, but goddamn, the only thing he feels is thoroughly and wholly exhausted.

It doesn’t mean anything, though, the two of them sleeping together. Benny’s a decent-looking guy and he isn’t _terribly_ bad in bed, but that’s it. Eli’s still here with an agenda, and he’s leaving with that Platinum Chip, one way or another.

“So,” Benny says conversationally, bringing Eli out of his thoughts. He runs his fingers over Eli’s scarred lip one last time before he rolls back onto the pillow, laces his fingers behind his head. “How long you staying in Vegas, baby?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it,” Eli admits. He never bothered to plan what he would do after he killed Benny and got his revenge. But now, he’s not even sure if Benny’s worth the effort it would take to kill him. After months and months of tracking him across the Mojave, months of planning how he was going to kill Benny, months of waiting for this day to come, he’s not sure if he even  _wants_ to kill him.

“You should think about sticking around for a while,” he shrugs.

Eli quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Oh, yeah, babe,” Benny says, rolling on his side to face him. “You and me,” he waves his finger between them, “I got a feeling we’d be an eighteen karat team.”

Eli turns his head to meet Benny’s eyes. “What makes you think I want to team up with you?”

“Hey, hey,” he says, palms out in mock surrender, “we ain’t locking nothing down, baby. Just something to consider, you dig?”

As much as Eli hates to admit it... Benny might be on to something here. He could prove useful if Eli keeps him around. He seems gullible enough, and he’s already proven that he’ll do just about anything Eli asks. Killing him could just prove to be a waste of a good resource.

Eli gives him a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Baby,” he beams, taps Eli under the chin with a knuckle, “you are a gem.”

Eli scowls and swats his hand away half-heartedly.

With a content sigh, Benny turns to lie on his stomach and moves closer to Eli, burying his face in the crook of Eli’s neck, draping his arm over his chest. “Hey,” he says, voice soft, muffled against Eli’s skin. “Hold me, will you?”

Eli freezes, and for a moment he’s not sure he heard Benny right, but Benny settles in against him, presses a few lazy kisses to Eli’s collarbone. The rational part of his mind is telling him to get out of here, leave Benny and Vegas behind, never come back. Staying here is a terrible idea, but he hasn’t slept in an actual bed since Novac, and Benny’s body is pleasantly warm and his eyelids are so heavy.

“I swear, you wore me out,” Benny slurs, voice already thick with sleep.

It’s been a long time—too long, Gannon would nag—since he’s had more than a few hours of sleep at a time. A quick nap couldn’t hurt.

So Eli wraps his arms around Benny, rests his hands on Benny’s back, lightly scrapes at Benny’s skin with his fingernails. After a few quiet minutes, Benny’s eyes drift shut and his breathing evens out, and Eli lets himself relax for the first time in months.


	11. Dream A Little Dream Of Me

Eli sees the house in his dream, same as always. The beach and the boy and the birds and the running, it’s all the same, just as it always is. One moment he’s running down the beach and then he’s running through the forest and he falls and tries to cry out for help and—

He blinks, and for once, the dream doesn’t end there.

He blinks and finds that he’s somewhere else. Where, he doesn’t know, but he can see the moon in the sky and the air feels warm and dry. When he strains his ears, the only thing he hears is the sound of steel hitting earth. He moves to push himself off the ground, but his hands and feet are bound with rope and he tries to shout out for someone to help, but again, when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.

Someone grabs him by the collar, pulls him up to rest on his knees, and he sees a man digging a grave. The man doesn’t turn to look at him, just keeps digging and digging.

He blinks and the man is gone, an empty, unmarked grave sitting in front of him.

He blinks again and this time he sees a different man. Benny.

At first, Benny doesn’t do anything, just stands there smoking a cigarette, smoke billowing around his face. He’s silent, his eyes fixed on Eli the entire time. After what feels like an eternity, Benny tosses the cigarette on the ground, reaches into his jacket, and wordlessly pulls out a gun.

Benny raises the gun, aims it square above Eli’s left eye. He tilts his head, furrows his brows, and frowns, like he’s confused by Eli somehow, but then he shakes his head, smiles, and pulls the trigger.

Eli hears the gun go off and sees the bullet coming for him, slowly, painfully slow, and he tries to move out of the way, but he’s frozen in place, doomed to watch the bullet head straight for him.

The bullet hits his forehead and he falls back onto the cold earth and—

Eli jolts awake and sits up in bed, gasping for air. His forehead burns and his head is pounding with steady waves of pain and violent throbbing. He cradles his head in his hands and rocks back and forth, desperately willing the pain to stop. After a few long moments, the throbbing subsides to a dull piercing ache, and he rubs at the spot on his forehead, just above his left eye, where the bullets hit his skull, and hisses in pain.

He takes a deep breath, gives a shaky exhale. When he looks up, he realizes that he’s alone. The sheets are bunched up around his waist, and he doesn’t remember falling asleep with blankets on. Hell, he doesn’t even remember falling asleep. He had only meant to rest his eyes for a moment, take a quick nap, but judging by Benny’s absence, he’d slept for longer than intended.

That asshole must have run off with the Platinum Chip. Goddammit, god fucking _dammit_.

Not like that’s going to stop Eli. He’d found Benny once, he can find him again.

He scrubs his hands down his face with a sigh, and looks over to see his clothes sloppily folded on the chair near the bed. He throws off the sheets and pushes himself off the bed, stretches out the cramps in his legs, and immediately goes for his jacket, digging around in the inner pocket. After a moment, he pulls out a vial of Med-X and injects the contents into the meat of his thigh, and the relief is beautiful and instant, and he sighs, lets the needle slip out of his fingers onto the floor.

It’s easier with the chems, and he knows it’s becoming a problem, but it helps keep the pain at bay and that’s all he cares about right now.

Eli spots a note sitting on the table next to his Pip-Boy, his name messily scrawled in what he can only assume is Benny’s handwriting. He turns on his Pip-Boy, checks the time on the screen and curses under his breath.

Nearly ten in the morning. He’d slept for at least twelve hours. _Fuck_.

He gathers his clothes and dresses quickly, and he knows he looks like a mess, but god, the only thing he cares about right now is finding Benny and getting that goddamn chip.

Before he turns to leave, he eyes the note on the table for a moment and considers ignoring it, but curiosity gets the better of him and he picks it up, eyes scanning down the page, and he feels himself growing angrier with every word. Benny’s an arrogant son of a bitch, that’s for sure.

Once he’s finished reading the note, he starts to ball it up in his fist, but something stops him, so he smooths it out on the table, folds it up, sticks it in his pocket, and tries not to think too much about it.

Eli starts combing through the room, looking for anything that could help him, anything he can take before he heads out. He searches Benny’s dressers, rummages through his belongings. Most of his drawers are filled with expensive clothes, pressed and ironed button ups, casual wear, clean white shirts. The man has more clothes than Eli’s ever seen one single person own, and yet Benny still seems to wear the same damn thing every single day.

He finds cartons of cigarettes in one drawer, takes a few packs for himself. Some stacks of pre-war currency are piled up in another, and he takes those as well. He opens a cabinet, finds some pajama pants and some silk boxers, rolls his eyes, slams the cabinet shut.

There’s a door off the side of the bedroom that he hasn’t checked yet, so he opens the door and immediately stops in his tracks. The door opens to a hallway leading to another room in which a securitron sits, a wide smile flickering on its screen.

“Hi! Hey there!” it greets cheerfully. “Good to meet you. What can I do for you today?”

Eli hesitantly takes a few steps into the room, eyes checking the corners for traps. A few old terminals sit at a desk on the side of the room, piles of scrap metal scattered about the floor. It seems safe enough, so he clears his throat and asks, “Who, uh… are you, exactly?”

“Allow me to introduce myself!” it declares. “I’m a PDQ-88b Securitron, but you can call me Yes Man!”

He raises his eyebrows. “Yes Man?”

“It’s what Benny always called me,” Yes Man explains. “Probably because I’m programmed to be so helpful!”

“Yeah, speaking of,” Eli says, “you seen Benny?”

“Oh, sure,” Yes Man confirms, “he came through here in a big hurry a few hours ago. Didn’t even stop to say hello! I think he went down to his secret escape elevator out there in the hall.”

“Damn it,” Eli growls, turns and leaves the room, bolts out of the suite and down the hallway to the elevator, frantically mashing the call button, waiting impatiently for the elevator car to arrive.

Finally, after what feels like ages, the elevator arrives and the doors slide open. He hurries inside, slams the button for the ground floor, shoves his hands in his pockets. He slumps against the wall, takes in a breath through his teeth, releases it in a quick exhale.

He can’t shake that dream from his thoughts.

Every single time he has it, it’s the same dream, over and over again. Everything, always the same, the house, the boy, the dark woods, the birds on the beach, it’s all there, always, every time.

He pulls his hands out of his pocket, runs his fingers down the tattoo on his right hand. Three little black birds in flight, starting at his wrist, going down to the base of his thumb. He doesn’t remember getting the tattoo, or why he got it, but he just… has a feeling that it has something to do with the birds in his dreams.

The boy in the dream is always the most unsettling part. He feels like he knows that face from somewhere, but every time he tries to wrack his brain for the answer, it feels just out of reach, like all of his other memories. The answers are there, somewhere in his head, but he just can’t put the details together.

Benny is a new addition, though. This is the first time he's shown up in the dream, and Eli doesn’t think it means anything, but the timing is… interesting. The thought leaves Eli feeling uncomfortable, so he pushes it out of his mind, tries to focus on the current task at hand. Tracking Benny down. Again.

The elevator finally arrives at the bottom floor and he heads straight for the main desk and clears his throat at Swank, raps his knuckles on the counter.

Swank looks up, gives Eli a smile. “Hey there, baby. What can I do for you?”

“I need my stuff back,” Eli says. “Now.”

“Leaving so soon?” Swank asks.

“Yeah.”

He frowns, but doesn’t argue. “Fair enough, baby. I’ll send someone to get your things, yeah?” Swank calls for someone named Louie, mutters something in his ear, and sends him off. Swank turns back to Eli, gives him a smile. “So, you have a good time, baby?”

“Uh, yeah,” Eli says. “Sure.”

Swank nods. “Glad to hear it.”

He forces a thin smile.

Swank clears his throat, leans against the counter. “So, you see the old boss man last night?”

“Yeah,” Eli scratches at his forehead, pulls his scarf farther up his neck, “I saw him alright.”

“How’d that go, hey? It go well?”

“Look,” Eli finally snaps, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his knife, pointing the blade directly at Swank. “Mind your own damn business, yeah? Just get my shit so I can get out of here.”

Swank’s eyes go wide and he puts his hands up, nods slowly. “Alright, alright, no reason to get hacked off, hey? Old Louie will be back any second now.”

Eli glares at him coldly, but he flips his switchblade closed, stuffs it back in his jacket pocket. “Better be,” he grumbles.

A few seconds later, as if on cue, Louie comes back around to the desk with Eli’s bag in tow, and he snatches it out of Louie’s hands, mumbling a half-hearted thanks as he slings the strap over his shoulder and heads out of the casino.

The streets are empty and quiet, save for a few NCR soldiers on patrol. Most people around here are probably still dead asleep from a long night of drinking and gambling. He starts to head for the Lucky 38, but a man in a black suit and an old hat perks up when he spots Eli and walks over, like he’s been waiting for him. It sets Eli’s teeth on edge, but he ignores it, keeps walking by.

“You are the courier, yes?” the man calls out. “You are Eli?”

He stops, turns around to face the man. “That depends on who wants to know.”

“The eyes of the mighty Caesar are upon you,” he says, flat and toneless. His voice grates on Eli’s ears and he’s tempted to pull out his gun and shoot him in the head, but he’s still groggy with sleep and the Med-X is really starting to kick in, so he decides to let him say his piece. “He admires your accomplishments,” the man continues, “and bestows upon you the exceptional gift of his Mark.”

The man reaches into his pocket, pulls out a gold coin on a string, and holds it out for Eli to take. He eyes it warily for moment before grabbing it and turning it over in his hands, inspecting the engraving on the front. Caesar’s bull, and beneath it the words “Lego Caesaris”.

Seems like genuine gold. Wonder how much it would go for around Freeside.

“Your crimes against the Legion, including the death of the fearless Vulpes Inculta, are hereby forgiven.” The man crosses his arms, fixes Eli with a stern glare. “Caesar will not extend this mercy again.”

Eli hums, gives him a lazy, mocking salute. “Message received, buddy.”

The man nods. “My Lord requires your presence at his camp, at Fortification Hill. His Mark will guarantee your safe conduct through our lands.”

Eli shoves the Mark in his bag carelessly, gives the man a tight-lipped smile. “Fantastic. I’ll be going now.”

“Incidentally,” the man says, and Eli stops to listen, “it might interest you to know that the man you seek has fled the Strip and is likely making haste for Caesar’s camp as we speak.”

“Right,” he breathes. “Of course he is.”

The man nods. “I suspected you would find that intriguing.” He unfolds his arms, clasps his hands behind his back. “Seek Caesar by way of Cottonwood Cove, south of Nelson. There will be a Courser waiting for you, Lucullus.” And at that, he simply turns and strolls away.

“Fucking Christ,” Eli mutters under his breath. It’s like one of the requirements for joining the Legion is being a creepy asshole.

Eli sighs, shoulders his bag, and makes his way for the 38, immediately heading up to the presidential suite. Rex is already there waiting when the doors open, greeting Eli with excited barks and a wagging tail. Eli bends down, scratches behind Rex’s ears. “Hey boy,” he says, voice soft.

“So, you’re alive.”

Eli looks up to find Arcade standing over him, a frown tugging at his lips. “Obviously,” Eli replies.

Arcade reaches up to adjust his glasses, folds his arms. “Did you take care of Benny?”

Eli breathes a laugh, rubs at his stubbly chin. “You could say that, sure.”

“You’re wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday.”

“Yeah? And?” he asks.

“And,” he presses, “you were gone all night.”

Eli stands up straight and dusts himself off, gives Arcade a shrug. “So what?”

Arcade sweeps his gaze up and down, taking in Eli’s mussed, sweaty hair, wrinkled clothes, bruised neck, and his eyes go wide. “Eli,” he says. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

Eli waves a hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter, get your stuff. We’re heading out.”

“I really think we should talk about this,” he presses, and Eli doesn’t miss the hint of hysteria in his tone.

“Not now, okay?” Eli drags a hand down his face, takes a deep breath to calm himself. “Look, we need to go if we want a chance of catching up with him.”

Arcade raises his eyebrows, rakes his fingers through his curls. “Eli, this is… this is kind of a big deal. I just…” He heaves a sigh, shakes his head in disbelief. “What were you thinking?”

Eli realizes that Arcade isn’t going to let this one go, so he relents. “I was…" A shrug. "I don't fucking know. Thinking I’d get him alone and swipe the chip off him.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Arcade nods. “But, why did you… ?” He trails off, gestures to Eli’s disastrous appearance.

“Well, I didn’t go in there planning on it, yeah?” Eli snaps. “It just happened.”

“It just happened?” Arcade repeats incredulously. “How does something like that _just happen_?”

“Look, can we finish this later?” he says. “Right now I just need you to get your bag so we can go.”

“Alright, alright,” Arcade mumbles as he turns to head into his room. He returns a few seconds later with his backpack and Eli pushes him and Rex into the elevator, jabs the button for the ground floor.

Arcade turns to look at Eli, but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Well, all that aside,” he says, “did you at least get the chip?”

A pause. “Not yet.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, slides his hand down his face. “Right. Of course. Well, will you at least tell me where we’re off to in such a hurry?”

Eli glances at him out the corner of his eye, quirks a brow. “Ever wondered what Caesar’s camp is like?”

“No,” Arcade says. “Not at all, actually.”

He shrugs. “You’re about to find out.”

“Oh,” Arcade sighs. “Just how I wanted to spend my day.”


	12. If I Knew You Were Coming I'd've Baked A Cake

The sky is bright and clear, rays of morning sunlight glittering on the waters of the Colorado River. Cursor Lucullus rows the boat in time with the nearby beating of drums, the oars cutting through the water at a steady pace, never faltering. If Lucullus is tired from hours of rowing, he doesn’t complain, simply keeps rowing.

Eli smells the smoke of burning campfires, hears the faint clink of metal against metal over the echoing boom of the drums, so he assumes they’re getting close to Fortification Hill. It’s nearly nine in the morning now, and they had left Cottonwood Cove just after five, so it can’t be much longer.

Arcade is softly dozing away next to Eli, his head resting gently on Eli’s shoulder. He fell asleep almost immediately after they boarded and hasn’t stirred since, leaving Eli alone with just Rex and his thoughts for company.

Eli pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and sighs, stretches his legs out in front of him as best he can in the cramped boat. The Med-X he’d taken earlier is starting to wear off, the all too familiar aches and pains already seeping back into his muscles. The high never lasts long enough anymore and the pain always seems worse afterwards, harder to ignore, harder to manage.

Over the last few days since that morning he woke up alone, he’s been shooting up constantly just to keep himself sane and functioning. This constant chem usage is probably killing him, or at least doing some sort of permanent damage, but it’s keeping him alive for the present moment, and that’s all Eli cares about.

The sounds of camp are steadily getting louder as they reach a bend in the river, and as the boat turns and moves past the high cliffs of the canyon pass, he can see Legionaries stationed at a small dock in front of a large wooden gate. End of the line.

“We have arrived,” Cursor Lucullus says mildly over his shoulder.

Eli nudges Arcade awake with his elbow and he sits up with a groan, rubs at his eyes under his glasses.

“We’re here.”

Arcade yawns, gives Eli a sheepish smile. “How long was I out?”

“The whole time.”

“Did you get any rest?”

He bends down to pet Rex, obviously avoiding Arcade’s eyes, shakes his head.

Arcade frowns, but Eli can tell he’s not surprised.

Lucullus steers the boat up to the dock and one of the Legionaries tethers the raft to a post with rope, motions for them to exit. The Cursor hoists himself up and out of the boat and Arcade moves to stand, but Eli grabs him by the sleeve.

“Everything okay?” Arcade asks, eyebrow arched.

“No,” he shakes his head, “I need some Med-X.”

Arcade blinks, a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I really don’t think—“

Eli puts up a finger to stop him. “Save the lecture, Gannon. Just…” He trails off and balls his hands into fists, focusing on the sharp pain of his fingernails pressing into his gloved palms. “Tell me you have some on you, for Christ’s sake.”

Arcade is quiet, but after a moment he relents and digs through his bag, pulls out the desired vial.

Eli grabs it from him and immediately injects the contents of the needle, ignoring Arcade’s concerned look and obvious discomfort. The pain begins to ebb almost instantly and he breathes a sigh of relief, scrubs at his face with his hands. “Well,” he says, waving a hand towards the camp, “let’s see why Caesar called us out here, yeah?”

Arcade nods, raises an eyebrow. “You sure they can’t just put us down as no-shows for this little get together?”

Eli chuckles. “Normally I’d be all for it, but I want that goddamn chip, even if I have to wrestle Caesar himself for it."

“Now _that’s_ something I’d pay to see,” Arcade remarks with a smirk. He pushes himself off the rickety wooden bench, wipes at his coat in a futile attempt at removing some of the dirt and grime. “Shall we get this over with, then?”

“Might as well,” Eli says as he pulls himself out of the boat, Arcade and Rex following behind.

Lucullus is waiting for them up the path, just in front of the gate, hands clasped behind his back. “Lord Caesar does not like to be kept waiting,” he comments impatiently.

“Yeah, well, Lord Caesar can kiss my ass,” Eli mutters under his breath, shoves his hands in his pockets.

One of the Legionaries moves to the gate and slides the heavy door back, ushering them inside with a wave. A guard turns to them as they enter the camp and holds up his hand, gives Eli a glare. “By order of Caesar, all visitors must disarm and relinquish all banned items,” the guard says.

His thoughts immediately jump to the knife and pistol he’d kept stowed in his jacket before going to the Tops, and he’s suddenly glad he hadn’t changed clothes afterwards back at the 38. He slides his bag off his shoulder and hands it over wordlessly, Arcade following Eli’s lead and doing the same.

The guard nods approvingly and stows their bags away in a metal footlocker. “Your belongings will be returned to you when you leave. For now, Caesar awaits your presence in his tent. ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eli snaps, “I get it. We’re going.” At that, he turns to Arcade and Rex, motioning for them to follow, and heads down the trail into the camp, his companions following at his heels.

Eli lights up a cigarette and takes a deep, long drag, exhales the smoke in a frustrated huff. “Fucking hate these Legion guys,” he mumbles.

Arcade laughs, gives him a smirk. “Somehow I think the feeling’s probably mutual.”

“Good,” Eli says. He shakes his head, shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want to be in this shithole any more than they want me around. Let’s just get the chip and get the hell out of here.”

“You know, I never thought I’d say this to you, Eli,” Arcade remarks, “but that’s a plan that I fully endorse.”

Eli turns to meet Arcade’s eyes and winks, gives him a roguish grin. “I have good plans sometimes.”

“Sometimes being the operative word here, of course.”

“Maybe my plans aren’t always the best,” he concedes, “but we’re still alive, ain’t we? That’s what counts in my book.”

Arcade hums, nods slowly. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.” He’s quiet for a moment and he opens his mouth like he wants to ask something, but stops himself, snaps his mouth shut.

“What?” Eli asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“I’m just wondering something,” he says carefully. “What do you plan on doing if Benny’s here?”

“Benny?” He gives a disinterested shrug, waves a dismissive hand. “Haven’t even thought about him. I’ll just deal with him when it comes up.”

Arcade nods and seems to take this as an answer—for now, anyways—and doesn’t press further.

Eli’s not quite sure what he was expecting the heart of the Legion’s operations to look like. He knew it would be gruesome and unsettling at the very least, but nothing could have prepared him for the sights he sees while making his way through the camp. Slaves in tattered rags hauling loads of supplies that likely weigh more than them, women covered in muck and grime carrying out every soldier’s wishes, tending to their every need with nothing more than a nod. It’s disturbing, horrifyingly so, and even Rex is on edge, his hackles raised, teeth bared at anyone who comes too close. Eli can’t say he blames him.

They make their way through the center of the camp, following the main path up a steep hill that brings them to another large wooden gate. The guard pulls the gate open to let them pass, greeting them with a curt “ave” and a stiff nod.

“Do you think they know how ridiculous they look?” Eli asks Arcade as they pass by the guard.

He gives him a shrug. “Probably not.”

At the center of this area of the camp is a circular arena, soldiers sparring and training with each other in the ring. A tent sits on a rise above the arena, overlooking the whole camp. Caesar’s tent, he’s assuming. He can feel every eye on him as they walk past the arena, up the path that leads to the tent. It makes his skin crawl and his fingers itch for the warmth of a gun in his hand.

The Legionary stationed at the entrance of the tent raises a hand to stop them as they approach. “You must enter Caesar’s tent alone," he says to Eli. "Anyone else must remain outside.”

Eli frowns, flicks the ash off his cigarette. “Even the dog?”

“As I said, you must enter alone,” the guard repeats.

“Right,” he sighs and turns to Arcade, beckons him to come closer. “He so much as looks at you funny, you sic Rex on him, yeah?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” he frowns. “I can never tell with you.”

Eli doesn’t answer, just winks, pushes aside the flap, and walks inside. Caesar is seated on his throne at the end of the tent, a whole host of his personal bodyguards tracking Eli’s every movement as he makes his way across the room. He stops a few feet in front of the throne, takes a pull off his cigarette, taking in the man’s appearance. After all the talk he’d heard about the so-called “mighty” Caesar, he’d expected someone younger.

“So, you’re the courier who’s caused so much trouble for my Legion,” Caesar says, his tone acidic, “and yet you dare come before me.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer.

“Tell me this,” Caesar says, leaning forward in his seat, arms braced against his knees. “I really want to know. I am feared—with good reason. But you—of all people—dare to come and stand before me, the mighty Caesar. What were you thinking?”

Eli reaches up to take off his sunglasses and fixes Caesar with a blank stare. "Am I... missing something here?" he asks. “You being serious with me right now?”

“After all you’ve done," Caesar spits, " _I_ should be the one asking _you_ that question.”

Eli licks his lips, gives a dry, sarcastic laugh as he looks around at the other Legionaries in the room. “You really going to play like this? _You_ called me here, buddy,” Eli spits, jabbing a finger at him, “so don’t act like I’m wasting your precious time. As far as I’m concerned, _I’m_ the one whose time is being wasted.”

“I did summon you, that’s true,” Caesar agrees. “It was still a choice. You decided to come. So I’ll ask again. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” he says slowly, “that you have something that I want.”

“We’ll deal with Benny when the time comes,” Caesar says with a wave of his hand.

He almost chokes on his cigarette, coughs up a lung full of smoke. “This isn’t about Benny,” he says, voice hoarse. “I want that chip.”

“And you’ll get it,” he says simply. “You do know why I wanted to meet you, right?”

A shrug.

“A man nearly kills you, so you track him across the breadth of the Mojave? You arrive on the Strip and waltz into the Lucky 38 like someone left you a key under the doormat?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You visit the Tops, and next thing you know, the head of the Chairmen is fleeing the Strip like a whimpering little pup?”

“And so on and so on, I get it,” Eli says impatiently. “I was there, I did all that. Don’t have to remind me. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“When you set your mind to something, you get results,” Caesar explains. “I like that. The question is, are you ready to get started?”

“Only thing I’m ready for is a bottle of whiskey and some sleep,” Eli deadpans, “but I get the feeling that’s not what you’re talking about.”

Caesar chuckles. “I’ve heard about your temper, but no one told me you were a smartass too.”

Eli doesn’t reply.

“The time is fast approaching when my Legion will assault the great dam and invade the west,” he explains. “Before that happens, I want Mr. House knocked out of the game, a quick one-two punch—with you doing the punching.”

“Still not seeing where the chip comes into this.”

“Down the hill, at the west edge of camp, is an old building. It was here when the Fort was taken in 2277,” he says. “Inside the building is a hatch, and inside that hatch are two steel doors that bear the sigil of the Lucky 38 casino.”

“And?”

“And,” Caesar snaps, “that same sigil is on the Platinum Chip Benny was carrying when we captured him. Isn’t that interesting?”

Eli hums. “Interesting. Riveting. Still doesn’t get me anywhere.”

“Well, even more interesting, there’s a slot about the same size as the chip on the console that opens the hatch.” He sits up straight and folds his arms, looks Eli dead in the eyes. “So you know what I think? I think the Platinum Chip opens those doors—doors that can’t be pried open or drilled open or blasted open. Because all that, I tried.”

“So, what exactly do you think is down there? I’m losing my patience with all this run-around nonsense. Just talk for Christ’s sake.” It’s probably not smart to test his luck like this, with dozens of armed guards and hundreds of soldiers around, but he’s had about enough of this place to last two lifetimes.

“Benny’s theory, if I understood it through all the screaming,” Caesar says with a smirk, “was that Mr. House stashed some kind of ultimate weapon down there.”

Eli purses his lips, raises his eyebrows. “What do you think he’s got down there?”

“A gigantic robot to stomp us all to death, who cares? Whatever it is, House built it, so I want it destroyed.”

He nods at the Legionaries standing next to his throne. “Why not get one of your toy soldiers to take care of this?”

“I could, but then I’d have to kill them. Besides,” he says, waving an arm in Eli's direction, “I called you here. You’re more than capable. So go to the building and take this fucking Platinum Chip with you.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the chip, drops it in Eli’s outstretched hand. “My Legionaries will meet you there with your weapons and equipment.”

He turns the chip over in his hand, runs his thumb across the cool surface. It feels strange to finally hold it in his hand, after everything he went through to get it back.

“Talk to Benny on your way out,” Caesar says, bringing Eli out of his thoughts. “He knows I’m going to let you decide how he dies. Maybe you want to remind him.”

Eli glances over his shoulder and sees Benny kneeling on the ground, tucked away in a room off to the side. He plucks the cigarette from his lips and flicks it to the dirt as he turns to walk over to Benny, stuffs his hands in his pockets.

Benny looks up at Eli from his place on the floor with a wide, toothy grin. “Baby,” he drawls, “ain’t this platinum? Had I known I would have baked a cake.”

“That so?”

“Damn right, it is,” he nods. “That last turn we took is an eighteen karat memory, baby. It’s all that’s been keeping me warm at night, stuck where I am.”

Eli sighs, rubs at his forehead. “Christ, I didn’t come here to… reminisce, Benny.”

“Well, ain’t you a sentimental one,” he scoffs. “Give me a sec to jump off cloud nine, I’ll meet you on the ground.”

“Look, it was—" He stops, looks around at the guards, lowers his voice. "It was one time, yeah? You think we were going to tie the knot or something?”

“I’m kneeling, ain’t I?” he smirks. “You want me to pop the question, just say the word, baby.”

Eli rolls his eyes. “You’re one annoying piece of work, you know that?”

“That ain’t what you were saying the other day, baby,” says Benny.

“Don’t let it go to your head, yeah?” Eli snaps. “It wasn’t as good as you think it was.”

Benny shrugs. “Baby, them noises you were making didn’t exactly sound like _complaining_.”

“Maybe I faked,” he shrugs.

Benny shakes his head. “You wouldn’t play old Benny like that, would you? You’d be hurting my feelings.”

“All the more reason to do it.”

“Hey, don’t pretend you wasn’t as eager as I was, baby,” he says. “Come on, admit it, you and me,” he raises his eyebrows suggestively, as if to further exaggerate the point, “we had some fun.”

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of an answer, Eli bends down to squat in front of Benny, grabs his chin between his index finger and his thumb, turns his face to the right, then the left, taking stock of his injuries. A dark, black bruise encircles his left eye, his bottom lip swollen and split. Drops of blood stain the fabric of his shirt and coat, and while Eli doesn’t know exactly what Caesar and his minions put Benny through, he guesses that it was more than unpleasant.

Eli almost feels something like a pang of sympathy for him, but ignores it.

“So,” says Benny, voice soft, “what’s the damage, baby? No one’ll give me a mirror.”

Eli shrugs. “You weren’t exactly a sight to see before.”

“Oh,” he gasps, laying the melodrama on thick, “you wound me.”

Eli smirks, drops his hand from Benny’s chin. “That’s the idea, yeah.”

“Baby, if taking me for a ride in the sack is your idea of wounding me, then I’m all for it.”

“Look, don’t…” he shakes his head, “don’t count on it happening again. It was a one-time thing, yeah?”

Benny pauses, but gives Eli a nod. “Yeah, I dig, baby.”

“Good,” he says simply, and returns Benny’s nod with one of his own, pushes himself off the ground to stand up.

“So,” Benny sighs, tilts his head to meet Eli’s gaze, “as much as I’d love to chat the day away, you and me’s got business to discuss.”

Eli nods, grateful for the change in topic. “Got the chip,” says Eli, and pulls it out of his pocket as proof. “Caesar wants me to blow up whatever’s down there in the bunker.”

“Sure, that’s what _Baldie_ wants,” he says, rolls his eyes, “but _you_ don’t want to do that, baby. Whatever’s down in that bunker is the key to the city called Vegas.”

Eli folds his arms, raises an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“Here’s what you do,” Benny says, voice low. “You go down there and use the chip to do whatever Mr. House would have wanted you to do. And when you get back to the Strip, you find Yes Man. I made it so that cat can’t help but be helpful, dig?”

Eli eyes him warily. “You’re just handing me your scheme on a silver plate?”

“It’s called having a legacy, baby,” he says. “Look, I ain’t a harbor for illusions. I ain’t expecting to get out of this shin-dig alive.”

Eli hums and meets his eyes, holding his gaze. “Caesar said I get to decide how you die.”

“Yeah, he mentioned,” Benny says, a touch defensively. “Like I said, that’s what Baldie wants you to do, baby, but I got the feeling it ain’t what _you_ want to do.”

Eli clenches his jaw. “That what you think?”

“You’ve had plenty of opportunity for killing so far, baby,” says Benny, “but here I am, and here you are. Both of us still kicking.”

“So, you think because I haven’t killed you _yet_ ,” he says, “I’m not going to kill you at all?”

Benny shrugs. “Just saying, baby. Killing me would have saved you some trouble.”

“Yeah, don’t I fucking know it,” he mumbles, rubs at the ever-present knot at the base of his skull, shoves his hands in his pockets. “You could’ve killed me, too, you know. I was still asleep when you ran off and got yourself in this mess.”

“I already tried to kill you once, baby. Look how that turned out.”

“You already put two rounds in me. Maybe third time’s the charm.”

Benny’s gaze is intense, unwavering, eyes fixed on Eli’s. “Guess I ain’t ever going to find out.”

Eli smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He slides his sunglasses back on, pushes them up the bridge of his nose. “See you around, Benny.”

He’s only taken a few steps before he hears Benny call out, “Hey, Eli.”

He stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn to face him.

“Watch yourself out there, will you?”

Eli spares a glance over his shoulder, gives Benny a nod. “Don’t run off while I’m gone, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies.

Eli leaves without another word.


	13. We'll Meet Again

“You could have warned me ahead of time that you planned on doing this,” Arcade shouts over the cacophonous crack of gunfire echoing throughout the camp.

Eli pumps his shotgun, blows out the kneecaps of a nearby recruit Legionary. The Legionary screams and Eli shoves him to the ground, steps over his whimpering body. “That would take the fun out of it,” he calls back.

He hears Arcade laugh, high and breathless. “You and I have very different ideas of fun,” he says as he takes cover to dodge a spear flying through the air.

Taking on the entire Legion with a doctor and a dog probably wasn’t Eli’s brightest idea yet, but he’s laughing and his heart is racing, pounding wildly in his ears, and Christ, he feels _alive_. More alive than he’s felt in weeks, maybe even months. It’s positively  _exhilarating_.

The Legionaries don’t stand a chance, not really. The combined force of the three of them mow the Legion down with relative ease, wave after wave of Legionaries falling to the dirt in crumpled heaps of limbs and gore. The sight is satisfying, incredibly so, and he doesn’t bother to pretend like he’s not enjoying this, lips curled up in a vicious grin, teeth bared.

The stench of blood in the air is so thick it’s almost dizzying. Eli can taste it on his tongue and his boots squelch in the soaked dirt with every step and he’s covered in the stuff, but man, he really doesn’t care.

Eli knows he’s not a good person, and he’s never denied that fact, but he thinks that this might be one of the more gruesome things he’s done, killing an entire camp full of people, enjoying it the whole time.

Oh well. Doesn’t matter. No one will miss the Legion, after all. Eli certainly won’t, Arcade certainly won’t. As far as Eli’s concerned, he’s doing the Mojave a favor.

The camp is absolute chaos, all screams and shouts and gunfire and explosions. Eli lets the women and children go free, shoves them out of the way and into cover when they cross his path. The men, however, are fair game, every single one of them.

The Med-X he took earlier is still pumping through his veins, and he shrugs off every hit, every punch that the Legionaries manage to get in. One soldier gets too close and slices at Eli’s left forearm with a machete, the blade cutting easily through the leather of his jacket, down through his flesh. Eli barks a laugh, a deep, guttural sound, and blows the soldier’s face to bits with one clean shotgun blast.

He can’t tell how deep the Legionary’s blade went into the muscle, but he can feel blood seeping down the sleeve of his jacket and over his fingers in thick, warm trails, coating his hands in crimson.

When the chems finally wear off he’s going to feel like hell, of course, and his arm will probably need stitches, but at the moment he feels invincible, untouchable. The feeling is intoxicating, and almost hopes that it lasts.

Caesar’s Praetorians burst from his tent and make their way down the hill to join the fight, fists raised in the air, shouting something in that unintelligible language they all insist on speaking. Eli throws his shotgun over his shoulder, reaches into his bag and grabs a frag grenade, pulls the pin with his teeth. He tosses it towards the Praetorians and dives behind a tent, fingers plugging his ears.

The grenade goes off in a deafening explosion, the sounds of pained screams and shrapnel echoing through the camp. The shotgun gets switched out for a pistol as he scrambles out from his makeshift cover, and finds all but one of the Praetorians knocked to the ground. He shoots the last man standing in the legs with two precision shots and he cries out, stumbles, and Eli whistles for Rex to finish him off.

Only one person left to take care of.

Eli looks over his shoulder and motions for Arcade to follow, doesn’t even spare a glance at the pile of Praetorians clinging to the last threads of life in the dirt and mud as he passes by, makes his way up the hill to Caesar’s tent.

Eli throws the entrance flap aside and storms across the tent, eyes locked on Caesar’s. He’s sitting on his throne, stony-faced, and Eli’s almost disappointed that he’s apparently not going to put up a fight.

Eli shoots him in both knees, two clean shots, one for each knee cap, and he yells, hands grasping at his legs, mouth hanging open as he silently screams in agony.

It’s unfortunate, Eli thinks, that he killed all of Caesar’s Legionaries before killing him. Keeping one or two of them alive long enough to see their revered leader fall at Eli’s hand would been one hell of a sight.

Eli grabs him by the collar and throws him to the floor, kicks him in the chest with a grunt. “Just some fucking courier, yeah?” he says before stomping down one of his bloody knees, grinning at the sounds of his screams. “Guess what a _courier_ just did to your precious Legion, buddy.”

A quiet moment passes as he waits for him to say something, but all Caesar manages is a coughing fit and hoarse screams of pain. Eli sighs, kicks him again. “Fucking bald piece of shit,” he growls, punctuating each word with a boot slammed into his stomach.

“You got anything to say?” Eli shouts. “Not so talkative now, huh?”

Caesar makes a choked sound like he’s trying to say something, but Eli just scowls, raises his gun, and unloads the rest of his ammo directly into Caesar’s skull. “Mighty Caesar, my ass,” he mumbles, spits on the lifeless body.

And with that, the camp is suddenly silent, the only sounds the crackle of campfires still burning and Eli’s heavy breathing. He holsters his gun and heaves a deep exhale, shoulders slumping.

Someone clears their throat and he turns his head to see Arcade standing behind him, brows knit, a frown pulling at his mouth. He puts a hand on Eli’s shoulder tentatively, keeping his touch light. “You okay?”

Eli shrugs his hand off, shakes the sudden fog from his head, blinks. “I’m fine.”

Arcade doesn’t look convinced, but apparently decides not to argue for once and nods toward the corner of the tent, over behind his shoulder. Eli follows his gaze and his eyes land on Benny, still tied up on the floor where Eli left him not even an hour ago.

In all the mayhem of earlier, he’d forgotten Benny was even here, his thoughts focused on more pressing matters.

“Baby, you’re a scrapper,” Benny says, clearly impressed. His eyes are wide, irises dark, and Eli thinks, with some amusement, that it reminds him of the look he’d given Eli when he pinned Benny down on the mattress that night in his suite.

Eli hums, busies himself with reloading his gun, making a point not to look in Benny’s direction.

“They didn’t stand a chance,” Benny continues.

He loads a new magazine, pulls back the slide, the round chambering with a satisfying _click_.

“How about me?” asks Benny, and the question hangs in the air, the atmosphere tense.

Eli finally turns to face him fully and crosses the room to stand in front of him, pistol held loosely in his hand all the while.

“Kind of funny,” Eli says evenly, “how this whole thing started with _me_ tied up in the dirt.” A shrug. “Full circle and all that.”

“Go ahead and laugh, baby. I ain’t blind to the humor in this situation,” Benny remarks. He pauses, tilts his head, purses his lips. “So, how’s it going to end?”

Eli shrugs. “Got a preference?”

“Yeah, not dying at all sounds ring-a-ding,” he says, “but somehow I’m thinking that option ain’t on the table.”

Eli is quiet, but the silence seems to be answer enough.

“Can’t say I blame you, baby. Seems only fair.”

Eli raises an eyebrow. “You think?”

A nod. “Course I do. I killed you. Well,” he stops himself, and he almost looks sheepish for a moment, “I tried to, anyways. But, way I see it, it’s enough that you got the rights to kill me back.”

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for the kind of guy who cares about that moral bullshit is all.”

“I’m full of surprises, baby,” he beams, gives Eli a wink.

Even when he’s just moments away from death, he’s still desperately trying to be charming. It’s almost impressive, the way he tries so hard and fails so miserably, and Eli wonders for a moment if it’s an elaborate joke, or if he really thinks he’s actually being suave.

Eli doesn’t think about that night much, that fateful night back in Goodsprings that started this whole thing, this three month long journey across multiple states just to track down one man. Much of that night is lost to the mess that is his memories, but he vaguely remembers Benny saying something about looking people in the face when he kills them.

Eli meets his eyes, holds his gaze. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be, baby.”

Eli raises his arm, points the gun directly at Benny’s head. His aim is steady, unwavering. “Last words?”

“Just that you got to know…” he trails off and shrugs, purses his lips. “If I got to go, I’m glad it’s you sending me on my way.”

Eli frowns, but doesn’t lower his gun. He’s likely just trying to buy time, stall him, manipulate him somehow, but his curiosity gets the better of him. “Why?”

Benny doesn’t reply immediately, just keeps his eyes on Eli’s. “You don’t want to kill me,” he says after a moment, voice so soft it’s almost a whisper.

Eli pulls back the hammer. “Yeah? You think you know me?” he snarls, takes a few short strides to stand over him, presses the muzzle of his gun against Benny’s forehead. “You fucking think you know me?”

“Guess we’re both full of surprises,” says Benny.

Eli’s mouth twists up in a sneer, nostrils flared. Trigger finger twitching.

For a brief moment, he really thinks that he could kill Benny. He’s never believed in regrets, never wasted his time thinking about things he can’t change.

Would he regret killing Benny?

He’s not sure.

He’s killed hundreds of people in the last few months alone, never regretted a single one of their deaths, and most of them hadn’t wronged him like Benny had. His body count is likely somewhere in the thousands, and Benny would just be one more death, just another body on the ground, just another splash of blood on Eli’s hands.

The world will still go on without him. Eli will go on. Nothing will change and Eli won’t miss him. No one will miss him. Even if he could potentially be a valuable resource, Eli will make do. Find other people, other pawns. Benny is nothing to him. Nothing.

He moves his finger to the trigger.

Benny’s gaze is still locked on his, but it’s soft, like he knows what’s about to happen, and he’s accepted it.

Eli closes his eyes.

The seconds tick by, and Eli can hear his heart pounding in his ears, the sounds of Benny’s breathing. Applies the slightest pressure to the trigger, just starts to pull it back—

And he lowers the gun from Benny’s forehead, arm dropping to hang at his side. He pushes the hammer back into place with his thumb and holsters his gun, turns his back to Benny as he drags his hands down his face.

It’s almost funny, how he can end any innocent man’s life without a second thought, but he can’t bring himself to kill the one man who deserves it the most.

Eli couldn’t kill him in his room. And he can’t kill him now.

No, it’s not just that he can’t kill him. He could, very easily. It’s that he doesn’t _want_ to. He doesn’t want to kill him.

The realization is a frightening one. This… misplaced fascination. Or maybe fondness.

Whatever it is, it’s a weakness, and he prides himself on not having any weaknesses.

He doesn’t want to kill him, but he finds that he doesn’t want Benny around, either, so he takes a deep breath, heaves a sigh, and makes a snap decision.

Eli reaches into his pocket and fishes out his knife, opens the blade with a flick of the wrist as he turns back to face him. He bends down to Benny’s level and grabs his bound hands, making quick work of the ropes.

The bindings fall from his hands and Eli pushes himself up off the ground, and Benny follows suit, rubbing at the raw skin of his wrists as he stretches out his cramped legs. Neither of them says anything at first, and Eli avoids meeting his eyes until he feels Benny’s hand on his arm, his thumb resting just above the bloody tear in Eli’s sleeve.

“You’ll get that all patched up, yeah?” Benny asks, and for a moment, he almost thinks he sounds genuinely concerned.

Eli pulls his arm away, waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Just…” He nods towards the tent flap. “Get the fuck out of here, yeah?”

Benny nods, slides his hands in his pockets. “Take care of yourself out there, hey?”

He forces a tight smile. “I’ll try.”

“That’s what I like to hear, baby.” He runs his fingers through his hair, adjusts his tie, brushes the dirt off his coat with the back of his hand. It’s futile, really, as he’s still bruised and bloody and looks like an absolute mess, but he looks back up at Eli with a smug smile plastered on his face. “How do I look?”

“Like I’m going to kick your ass if you don’t get out of here,” Eli snaps. “But, for what it’s worth, you look awful.”

Benny laughs, and he moves to take a step closer to Eli, but stops himself. “See you around, Eli,” he murmurs, turns on his heel, and saunters out of the tent without a look back.

Eli sighs and looks down at his arm, inspecting the damage done. His arm will heal, he’s not particularly concerned about that. His jacket, however, is torn and stained with his half-dried blood. A shame, really. It’s his favorite jacket, too.

Arcade moves from the other side of the room to stand next to Eli, his eyebrows raised. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he says curtly. “Great.”

Arcade knows it’s a lie, Eli's sure of that, but he doesn't seem to be in the mood to press any issues with Eli today, simply nodding and accepting the flimsy answers Eli gives him. Good. Eli's not in the mood to argue right now, either.

“Do you think that was the right idea?" Arcade asks. "Letting Benny go?”

Eli shrugs. “Probably not. Doesn’t matter now.”

“Guess not,” Arcade agrees. “At any rate, we should get going. I’d rather your arm didn’t get infected, if it’s all the same to you.”

Eli chuckles, looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t know. Might give you a chance to practice amputating.”

“See, I hate it when you do that,” he says, “because I never know when you’re joking and when you’re being serious.”

“Keeps you on your toes,” Eli replies and shoulders the strap of his bag. “Come on. I want to get as far away from this dump as we can before the sun sets.”


	14. You Always Hurt The One You Love

Even in the middle of the night, the Strip is alive as ever. It’s nonstop these days, never a moment’s rest, never a second of peace and quiet.

He avoids the Strip as much as possible, but Freeside isn’t much better, and he isn’t getting nearly as many jobs as he would like, so he doesn’t have much excuse for leaving and wandering the desert these days.

Not like he needs a reason, of course. He can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, go wherever he wants. Hell, he could flat out leave the Mojave entirely if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t, so he stays, wasting his days away running errands, killing people who need killing. It’s tiresome and tedious, but it’s something.

Things have changed drastically over the last two months since the second battle for Hoover Dam, and it wasn’t a gradual change. Everything changed practically overnight. One day the NCR was in town and the Legion was a constant threat. The next, nothing. No Legion losers, no NCR soldiers. It’s like Eli’s wildest dream come true.

Usually he doesn’t care for sudden change, but this is a change he can live with.

The Strip is perhaps the most visibly affected. The distinct lack of NCR patrols are obvious to anyone, the casinos are busier than ever, the caps practically pouring in as tourists come to see the newly liberated Vegas. Eli thought the Strip had been busy the first time he’d visited, but now it’s a nonstop madhouse, the streets constantly flooded with crowds, the casinos even more so.

Eli’s just glad he doesn’t live here. These short visits are more than enough, and at this point, he’s had his fill of Vegas for a lifetime.

Gomorrah and the Ultra-Luxe have had their share of business since Hoover Dam, but nothing compared to the Tops. Every time he stops by the place is packed wall-to-wall, and it only seems to get busier every time he visits. He’s never seen so many people in one place before, and it’s enough to give him a splitting headache every single time.

Eli shoulders his way through the crowd, pushing his way past gamblers and tourists and Chairmen alike. Swank is working the desk, just as he always is, and he gives Eli a toothy smile as he makes his way toward him.

“Hey, Eli, baby, how’s it going?” he greets warmly, resting a hand lightly on Eli’s arm. “How’s my favorite guy?”

He always seems so genuine with Eli and he’s never sure how to take it. Eli’s not one to trust people, and he always wonders if Swank has some sort of ulterior motive for being so friendly with him, but so far he’s been nothing but perfectly pleasant to Eli.

It’s strange. He’s not used to people being happy to see him. Usually he evokes the opposite reaction in people.

But, as strange as it is, it’s… sort of nice. Swank is stuffy and uptight as all hell, but he’s quiet and doesn’t try to pry into Eli’s personal life like so many others have. It’s rare to meet someone who knows how to mind their own business these days.

Eli gives him a curt nod and leans his weight against the counter, dragging a hand through his hair. It’s been a long few days and he’s absolutely exhausted, and for once he’s actually looking forward to getting some sleep. Eli shrugs and Swank removes his hand from Eli’s arm, taking the hint that Eli’s had enough of his touch for the moment. “Fine,” he says. “I’m fine. Just stopped by to let you know I took care of things.”

“Oh?” Swank asks, raising his eyebrows. “You got that, uh, little business all wrapped up for me?”

Eli holds his gaze, unwavering. “Was there any doubt?”

“No, no, Eli, of course not,” he quickly reassures, waving a hand dismissively. “I knew you’d get the job done, baby. Believe you me, I got complete faith in you.”

Eli laughs dryly. “That so?”

“Of course, baby,” he beams. “I trust you more than anyone else here.”

Christ, this guy is about as sappy as they come. He’s an idiot for trusting Eli, and he can use that to his advantage. How long this little business arrangement of theirs will last is uncertain, but the money is good, and he knows he can get whatever he wants from Swank. Might be worth sticking around for a while, until other, more profitable opportunities present themselves.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Eli asks mildly, busying himself with a cigarette.

Swank crosses his arms and leans forward to rest on the counter, smirk pulling at his lips. “You saying you got a reason for me not to trust you, baby?”

Eli shrugs nonchalantly, purses his lips. “Maybe.”

He hums in reply and stands up straight, slides his hands in his pockets casually. “Well, I’ll take my chances, yeah? You took care of Benny, so you’re aces in my book, baby.”

Christ, this guy’s stubborn as he is stupid. Still, it’s not Eli’s fault if he makes the mistake of trusting him. That’s all on Swank. “Anyways,” Eli sighs, pushing himself up off the counter, “you got more work for me or can I just fuck off?”

Swank frowns and scratches at the stubble on his cheek. “Yeah, I got some more business I could use your help taking care of. But why don’t you stick around for a spell? Take a load off, let me get you some drinks.”

“Oh, no, no,” Eli says, shaking his head, “no, I can’t. I uh.” A shrug, and he takes a long pull off his cigarette. “You know. You got better things to do anyways.”

Swank frowns and shakes his head, moving his hand to rest on Eli’s arm again. “Nah, baby, I got all the time in the world for you.”

He searches Swank’s face for any trace of a lie, but he doesn’t know Swank well enough yet to spot his tells. It’s nearly three in the morning by now, and he should probably try to get some sleep or a decent meal for the first time in days, but a drink—or five—does sound nice.

Well, it’s not like he has any plans and he doesn’t _hate_ Swank, so why the hell not.

“Alright, alright,” Eli nods. “There somewhere quiet we can go?”

Swank quirks an eyebrow and Eli curses under his breath. “That’s not what I meant,” he snaps, pointedly avoiding his gaze. He’s quiet for a moment, and he can feel Swank’s eyes on him, so he sighs and drags a hand down his face. “Crowds,” he says, gesturing to the mass of people around them. “Not my thing.”

“Oh, yeah, baby, it’s no trouble,” he reassures, motioning for him to follow. “We’ll go up to the prez. Nice and quiet up there,” he says over his shoulder, “and we ain’t got to worry about any losers bothering us.”

The crowd of people on the casino floor is so thick Eli has to wedge himself through the crowd, shoving people to the side just to make his way through. Why people are so eager to come here and waste their money is beyond him. The place is a  _shithole_. He’ll never understand what people see in it.

Swank leads them to an elevator at the back of the main room and he follows Swank inside, anxious to get away from the craziness of the casino floor. Eli sags against the wall and ashes his cigarette with a sigh as the car starts to rise.

“You okay?” Swank asks, a frown pulling at his lips.

Eli nods.

A pause. “You look tired,” says Swank.

He shrugs.

“How long’s it been since you got some sleep?”

Eli’s quiet for a moment, and he takes a long drag off his cigarette, silently watching the smoke billow from his lips. “When was the last time I saw you?” he asks.

He frowns, shrugs. “Must have been three or four days now, I think.”

“Well,” Eli points at him with his cigarette, “there’s your answer.”

Swank gapes at him, shakes his head slowly, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “Four days? Eli, baby, you can’t push yourself like that. These little jobs ain’t worth losing sleep over.”

“It’s not the longest I’ve gone without sleep,” he shrugs. “Four days is nothing.”

“Four days is nothing,” Swank echoes with a scoff, combing his fingers through his hair. “Look, I ain’t letting you leave until you’ve had some sleep, you hear? No pay for your last job and no details on the next one until you take a goddamn nap.”

“Look, I can do without the lecture,” he snaps.

Swank nods and falls silent, seemingly having the wisdom to let the topic drop, but the silence is awkward and uncomfortable, so Eli sighs and mumbles around his cigarette, “Already planned on getting some sleep anyways.”

The elevator doors slide open and Swank gives Eli a small smile and motions for him to leave first, following behind him as they make their way into the suite.

Eli hasn’t been to this part of the Tops before. Usually he doesn’t make it much farther than the lobby for these little ‘business meetings’ of sorts.

Well, he’s seen Benny’s room, of course, but that was a different set of circumstances.

Eli makes a beeline straight for the bar off in the left corner in the room, dropping down onto one of the stools with a huff.

“What’ll you have?” Swank asks as he turns to browse the selection.

“Just whiskey.”

Swank nods and grabs the bottle, and as he moves to pour Eli a glass, Eli puts a hand up and shakes his head. “Just give me the bottle, Swank, don’t even bother with that shit.”

“Come on, baby, just humor me, will you?”

Eli’s tired and he just wants a drink and he’s not in the mood to argue, so he relents and motions for him to continue.

Swank pours two generous glasses and slides one Eli’s way with a grin before moving around the bar to sit in the stool next to him. He raises his glass and gives Eli a nod. “How about a toast?”

Eli raises an eyebrow. “To what, exactly?”

“To us, baby,” he says. “This,” he motions to the room around them, “it wouldn't have been possible without you. Business it better than it’s ever been, and it’s all thanks to you.”

Eli pulls a frown and waves a hand. “I just killed shit that needed killing. Nothing to it.”

“Sure, but you got rid of Benny single-handedly,” he says, laying the praise on thick. “If it wasn’t for you, Benny would still be alive sneaking around behind our backs, plotting and scheming and whatever shady business he got up to.”

Eli doesn’t meet Swank’s eyes, just stares blankly at the wall in front of him as he takes a drink of whiskey. Telling Swank that Benny had died at the Fort was easier than explaining what _really_ happened. Besides, Benny was an idiot, but surely he wouldn’t be idiot enough to come back to the Strip after all that happened.

Well, he _hopes_ Benny’s not that much of an idiot, at least.

“That’s not true,” Eli says finally.

Swank raises his eyebrows. “What’s that?”

“You said I killed him single-handedly. That’s not true,” says Eli, and he takes another drink from his glass before setting it on the counter lightly. “I used both my hands.”

Swank barks a laugh and claps Eli on the back, hand moving to rest on Eli’s shoulder. “Who would have known you got a sense of humor, hey?”

Eli shrugs off his hand and returns to his drink, savoring the burn of every drop. It’s been a long time since he’s had a quiet drink like this, in the company of someone he tolerates. Frankly, he’s not sure when, or even if he’s done something like this before, had some whiskey and light conversation.

He supposes this is just another one of those changes that he can learn to live with.


	15. Orange Colored Sky

Eli wakes with a start, heart racing, chest heaving as he fumbles for his gun and sits up straight, blindly pointing his weapon around the dark room. Rex raises his head from his spot next to Eli on the floor, nudging his hand with his nose, and after taking a moment to compose himself, Eli reaches over to give him a quick scratch behind the ears.

It’s okay. He’s okay. It was just a dream.

The same dream he always has. The boy on the beach and the birds in the sky and the running through the woods. It’s unnerving, just how real it feels, how it always feels exactly the same, down to every minute detail.

He heaves a sigh and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms to wipe away the bleariness of sleep. He’s not sure how long he slept, but he can see soft light filtering in through the tattered curtains, so he guesses the sun is just starting to rise.

Eli checks his Pip-Boy for the time, squinting as the neon backlight illuminates his face. Just past six in the morning. Which means he’d only been asleep for roughly three hours.

Still, it’s something. Enough to keep him going for another few days, at the very least.

He pushes himself up off the floor and stretches out his tired, sore limbs with a groan. It would be nice if he could get some sleep without having that same dream over and over again. He’s not one to put stock in dreams and try to divine some convoluted meaning out of them, but having the exact same dream countless times… It must be his brain trying to tell him something.

An old lost memory from his old lost life, likely. Or maybe the dream is a mix of a few half-forgotten memories, pieced together by his unconscious.

Either way, doesn’t matter. The only reason he cares about this dream is because it keeps him from getting sleep on the rare occasions he actually _wants_ to get some sleep.

Christ. Just thinking about it makes his head hurt.

He bends down to haul his bag up off the floor and digs around until he finds a can of water and some old Brahmin jerky and opens the water with his knife, taking a few sips before setting it on the floor for Rex to drink.

He drops into a chair in the corner of the room and rips off a small piece of jerky, chewing slowly. Vegas is still about five hours away, and that’s assuming they get lucky and don’t run into any trouble on the road. They’ve got a hard day ahead of them if they want to make decent time getting back to the Strip.

Eli tosses the rest of the jerky to Rex and he wolfs it down greedily in one quick bite, licking his chops before walking over to sniff his hands, hoping for more.

“That’s all I got, boy,” says Eli, holding his hands out, palms up as proof.

Rex licks Eli’s fingers and whines, resting his head on Eli’s knee, staring up at him with those big, soft eyes, tail wagging side to side.

He curses under his breath and gives Rex a few good pats. He wasn’t supposed to get attached to this dog, and he really hadn’t meant to, considering he’s technically not even his dog, but he’s got a weak spot for the old mutt.

“Sorry,” Eli says. “I’ll get you some more when we get back to Freeside, hey?”

Rex doesn’t answer, as dogs are wont to do, just keeps wagging his tail, and he can’t help but smile to himself. Rex has been much more upbeat and lively lately, and it warms some tiny little corner of Eli’s heart to see him like this. The trip up to Jacobstown was miserable, but it had been worth it to travel all that way if it meant Rex would be healthy again.

Eli sighs. No point wasting any more time sitting around. Daylight’s burning and all that.

He gathers his things quickly, slides his sunglasses back on his face, shrugs into his jacket, and heads out of the house, bag over his shoulder, Rex at his side. If they hurry, they can cover some decent ground before the sun gets too high in the sky and the heat becomes unbearable.

Travelling out here in the desert is starting to feel odd, like he’s doing it more out of obligation than anything else. When he was tracking Benny down, he had a clear goal and a clear purpose, but now he just has no idea what to do with himself.

Doing these jobs for Swank helps, but it’s just busy work, something to keep him from being bored. It’s easy money, but that’s the thing. It’s just too easy. He’d like a little more challenge, something to test him, push him to his limits, anything but these irrelevant and pointless errands. It’s almost worse than having nothing to do.

But, until he can find some other way of making money, this is all he’s got.

He sighs and pulls his scarf up over his mouth and nose to keep the sand out of his face and shoves his hands in his pockets. Maybe after he gets the payment for this job he can go off and find something fun to do. Get in a few fights, kill some people, steal some shit.

It’s been too long since he’s done something unnecessarily dangerous and reckless. He needs to do something about that, as soon as possible.

* * *

It’s nearly one in the afternoon by the time he and Rex make their way into Freeside, and Eli’s absolutely exhausted, even more so than he was before he got some sleep. The road back to Vegas was miserable, seemingly endless waves of radscorpions and geckos and raiders and mercs, never one moment of rest. He’s starving and irritated and the only thing he wants is a drink and to sleep for two days.

Freeside is even more of a hellhole these days than it was when Eli first arrived. Ever since Hoover Dam, it’s like absolute anarchy has been unleashed on the whole city. The streets are absolute chaos, people fighting each other over scraps and supplies and spare caps.

It’s funny, really. Going through Freeside and seeing people willing to kill someone for the handful of caps in their pocket just to buy some food as he passes on his way to Vegas, where people waste hundreds of caps on a single meal, just because they can.

It’s the way of the world. Just how things are. The people here might as well get used to it, if they haven’t already.

The Followers camp looks busier than ever, a mass of people crowded around the doors, waiting to get inside. The camp is one of the few friendly places left around town, and the only place offering beds and food to those living in the city. Everyone else, they’ve turned their backs on the people of Freeside to protect themselves, and Eli can’t say he blames them. The Mojave is a rough place and it’s every man for himself.

Eli hasn’t seen Arcade in months now, not since that whole business with his Enclave buddies. He’d said he would be at Hoover Dam, and Eli hadn’t exactly been looking for him that day, but he assumes Gannon had been there at the battle, though Eli has no idea if he was really there or if he made it out in one piece.

It would be a bit of a shame if he died at the dam, really. He wasn't a complete idiot, and he was a passable enough medic. Not like Eli would miss him or anything, but he might give him his five seconds of silence, or whatever it is that people do when someone they know dies.

A King greets Eli as he and Rex make their way down the streets of Freeside, and Eli gives her a short nod in reply. The Kings have been quiet lately, less and less of them showing their faces on the streets these days. Doesn’t much matter to him what they do, really. Eli likes the Kings and their style. They’re a bit too soft for his tastes, but they’re one of the very few gangs he hasn’t actively tried to eliminate, and he’s content to let them continue on doing their thing.

Eli stops at a vendor just outside the gate to the Strip and buys some more jerky for Rex, lets him take a moment to stop and rest and eat in relative peace. He’s really not sure if cyberdogs even _need_ to eat, but Rex seems to like eating as much as any other dog, always wolfing down whatever Eli has for him to eat on that particular day, so he assumes he must.

“That better, boy?” Eli asks.

He licks Eli’s hand, tail wagging furiously, and he gives Rex a light pat on the head. Man, when did he become one of those weirdos who talk to their pets?

Well. As long as no one ever catches him talking to Rex, there’s no harm in it.

“Alright, come on,” he says and whistles for him to follow. “We’re almost there, boy.”

The Strip is fairly quiet at this hour, relatively speaking of course. It’s still much too crowded for his comfort, but nowhere near as busy as it’ll be once night falls.

He’s compiled a rough mental list of things he wants to do once he’s done with this job, but he’s still not sure where to start. Might be fun to start with getting drunk and starting a fight at the Atomic Wrangler and seeing how many people he can take down. Or maybe he could take some Psycho beforehand and _really_  rough some people up. That might be even more fun.

Still, wouldn’t be much of a challenge. He’s already hard to stop when he’s not high on chems, so that might take the excitement out of it.

He has time to decide, though. He’s not in a rush anymore. With Hoover Dam behind him, he’s got no reason to push himself as hard as he did over those three or four months after he got shot. He can do whatever he wants now.

But really, he always could have done whatever he wanted. No one told him he had to spend months and months on a quest for revenge across multiple states. In fact, many people tried to tell him that it was a bad idea, but he still went on with it anyways. And what exactly had he gotten out of it?

Well, he did drive the two major factions out of his desert with their tails tucked between their miserable legs. That alone was worth all the shit he’d gone through over those four months. But he never did get his revenge.

He tries not to dwell on it too much, but he really doesn’t know what to think about how he handled that business with Benny. It had been… messy. To say the least.

The whole thing probably could have been handled better, but he’d gone with his gut, done what he felt was the best course of action. That’s what he tells himself, at least.

Eli makes his way into the Tops, and as he enters the lobby, he can hear shouting. Just one person shouting, but he can’t tell exactly who.

He heads in the direction of the noise and finds Swank standing just outside the main lobby, hands balled into fists, shoulders squared, yelling and shouting like he’s never heard. He’s usually so soft-spoken, he didn’t even know Swank was _capable_ of yelling like this.

And standing directly in front of him, smug smile spread across his face as he takes the verbal lashing with an aloof demeanor is—

Oh, fuck no. Not him, not _now_.

His eyes light up when he spots Eli over Swank’s shoulder and he grins, pushing Swank to the side and sauntering over to greet him.

“Baby,” Benny drawls, arms outstretched. “Fancy meeting you here, hey? What a small world we live in.”

Jesus Christ. He can already feel a headache coming on.


	16. The Best Is Yet To Come

“So, what are you in the mood for, baby?” Benny asks over his menu. “Whatever it is, anything you want. You name it, the Ben Man’ll buy it.”

Eli shrugs. “Not hungry.”

“Come on, baby,” he frowns, letting his menu fall to the table. He leans back in the booth and crosses his arms, gives Eli a nod. “How long’s it been since you ate something, huh?”

Eli gives a short huff, lips curled up in a sneer. “What are you, my babysitter?”

“Hey, I’m just looking out for you, yeah?" Benny says. "Swank mentioned you been out riding the Mojave for a while and I know for a fact the grub out there ain’t half as good as what we got here.”

“Yeah, well, you can cut it out,” he snaps. “Don’t need you to take care of me.”

Eli expects him to further push the subject, but he just gives Eli an easy nod. “Okay. Alright, I’m sorry, hey? Not trying to step on your toes or nothing, I just…” He trails off, waves a hand absentmindedly. “Can I at least buy you a drink?”

Part of him wants to say no and walk out the door and never come back to this place, but alcohol does sound nice right about now, so Eli purses his lips and gives a half-hearted shrug. “Won’t say no to booze.”

Benny smiles, a wide toothy grin spreading across his face. “Ring-a-ding, baby. I’ll be back in a flash.”

He watches as Benny gets up and heads over to the bar to order their drinks and drops his head in his hands, rubbing at the back of his neck with a sigh. This absolutely had not been on his list of things to do when he finished his last job, sitting in the Tops’ shitty restaurant with Benny.

Christ, why the hell did he decide to come back _now_? It’s been well over three months since Eli let him go free, and he suddenly decides to just come waltzing back through the doors like nothing happened. Everyone has spent the past three months assuming Benny’s dead. Hell, some people held parties, celebrated in the streets.

Well, he didn’t tell Benny to come back. He’d decided that all by himself, and it’s his bed to lie in now.

Benny returns to the table with their drinks and slides into the booth as he hands Eli a glass. “Wasn’t sure what you wanted, baby, so I hope you’re okay with scotch.”

Eli grabs the glass and takes a long drink, savoring the burn of the alcohol as it hits his throat. It’s been days since he last had a good drink, and the company might not be great, but the whiskey _is_ , so it evens out in his book.

“So,” Benny starts, glass in hand, “seems like you been a busy bee, hey? I go on a little vacation and come back to find there’s been a change in management.”

Eli shrugs. “Wasn’t all that hard. Just had to destroy the Legion and get the NCR to fuck off out of my desert.”

“Oh, is that all?” Benny smirks, takes a sip of his drink. “You sell yourself short, baby. It’s impressive work you done around here.”

He crosses his arms, raises a curious brow. “You think so?”

“I _know_ so,” Benny says.

Eli hums, but doesn’t reply.

He fishes around in his jacket pocket, and after a moment of searching, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and leans forward, holding the pack out in his hand. “Want a smoke?”

Eli wordlessly takes a cigarette and moves to look for his lighter, but Benny stops him with a raised hand and pulls one of his own from his pocket. “May I?” he asks.

A shrug. “Guess so.”

Benny leans forward and lights Eli’s cigarette before lighting his own, and he takes a long pull as he loosens his tie and relaxes back in his seat. “So,” he says, “I hear you was the one sent House to the big casino in the sky.”

“Yeah, that was me,” says Eli. “So what?”

“So what?” Benny echoes, sitting up to rest his elbows on the table and lean forward. “ _So_ ,” he says, “how’s it feel to bring a miserable era to a well deserved end?”

“Haven’t thought about it much,” he admits truthfully. “He wasn’t useful anymore, so I took care of him.”

He laughs and gives Eli a nod. “Ain’t got to explain it to me, baby. I know how it goes.”

“Yeah, I know you do,” he says mildly, “it’s what you did to me in Goodsprings.”

Benny flinches at that and ashes his cigarette, pointedly avoiding his gaze. After a few painfully long seconds, he looks back up at him and clears his throat, forcing a tight smile. “Well, it’s what I _tried_ to do, yeah?” he corrects. “You ain’t exactly easy to kill, baby.”

Eli chuckles around his cigarette. “Nice recovery.”

Benny waves a hand dismissively and scoffs. “Hardly. But I’m serious, baby. Ain’t nothing or no one can stop you.”

“Don’t know about _that_ ,” Eli says. He pauses for a moment and raises his eyebrows at him, purses his lips. “I am pretty bulletproof, though, yeah?”

“That’s putting it lightly, baby,” he deadpans.

Eli gives him a smirk and returns to his drink, turning the glass around in his hands, wiping away at the condensation with his thumb. He wants to hate how easy this is, being here with Benny, chatting the day away like two old friends. It’s embarrassing. He should be better than this. He should hate him, he should be burning with red hot rage and unrestrained disgust towards this man, but he just... doesn’t feel much of anything about him. Maybe a slight resentment, but he doesn’t fault Benny for shooting him. He would have done the same thing, and he almost did.

Eli doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the look on his face when he’d pressed the muzzle of his gun against Benny’s forehead. How terrified he’d looked for that split second before he got his expression under control. Eli hopes he hadn’t looked like that when Benny shot him that night.

Seems like a lifetime ago, and this definitely isn’t where he thought he’d be, but here he is, seated at a booth across from Benny. Drinking good whiskey and smoking with the man who’d shot him in the face. Twice.

Most people don’t go out for drinks with their attempted murderer, and they certainly don’t sleep with them. Where did his life go so off the rails that this is where he finds himself? It’s absurd, and the worst part is that the whole situation really doesn’t bother him that much.

Christ, it’s not like he’s singing campfire songs and making friendship bracelets with him or something. They’re just two people who know each other out for drinks. It’s not that weird, really. He’s just over thinking the whole goddamn thing.

It’s just drinks. That’s it. He needs to stop thinking about this so much. Any situation in which he gets free alcohol is not a situation that requires over analyzing.

Besides, he doubts Benny’s thinking about this as much as he is, if he’s even thinking about it at all. He was more than eager to jump in bed with Eli, so it’s unlikely he’s having an internal crisis about getting drunk with the man he shot.

“So,” Eli says, chewing on his bottom lip, gesturing at him vaguely. “You were, uh. You were gone a while. The hell were you up to all that time?”

Benny finishes off his drink and stretches out in the booth, laces his fingers behind his head casually. “Oh, you know,” he shrugs. “Little of this, little of that.”

Eli raises his brows and gives him a glassy stare. “Which means what, exactly?”

“It means,” Benny says, “that it ain’t that interesting. Come on,” he whines, “I’m sick to death of talking business.”

“Okay,” Eli says slowly and heaves a sigh, drags a hand down his face. “Look, I don’t do... _this_ a lot, yeah? Don’t really know what you’re supposed to talk about when you go drinking with someone you barely know.”

Benny’s eyes go wide in exaggerated surprise and he shakes his head, lips pursed. “Baby, is that all I am to you?”

“Yeah,” he says, not missing a beat. “It is.”

To Eli’s surprise, Benny starts laughing, and he pulls at his ear, crosses his arms. “Fair enough, baby, fair enough. But I’m an open book. Anything you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

“I already know some stuff about you,” he says with a shrug. “Not really interested in knowing much more than that.”

“Oh yeah?” Benny asks. “Who was it told you about little old me?”

Eli picks at a scab on his knuckle and shrugs. “Just House.”

“House, hey?” he drawls. “What’d the old geezer tell you?”

“Not much, honestly,” Eli says. “Just that you used to be a tribal.”

His brow knits and he leans forward, rests his crossed arms on the table, smirk pulling at his lips. “That’s right,” Benny nods. “Called ourselves the Boot Riders in the way-back. Silly name, but that’s how we rode the Mojave, dig? On our feet.”

“So, what? You were a bunch of raiders or something?”

“No, no, baby,” Benny shakes his head with a frown. “We were nomadic badasses, not to be trifled with. A gang of ruffians, though with a certain _panache_.”

“Yeah? What made you want to give up the desert for this?” he asks.

Benny takes a drag off his cigarette and exhales the smoke in a short breath. “Running around in gecko skins poking at things with sticks was never the life for this cat, you dig? House came to us with an opportunity, and I took it.”

“Not my business,” Eli says, waving a dismissive hand. “Just not what I would have done.”

Benny squints at him and bites his lip before he gives Eli a grin. “Anyways, that ain’t important, baby. What’s important is that you got me at a disadvantage. You know a little about me, but I don’t know nothing about you.”

“Thought I told you before,” he says. “Don’t know jack about who I was before and I don’t much care. Besides,” he gives Benny a short nod, “you probably know more about who I was than I do.”

“Nah, afraid not,” he says with a shake of the head, reaching to stamp his cigarette out in the ash tray on the table. “I told Yes Man that I only wanted to know who you was and where we could find you.”

“You knew my name, at least.”

“And nothing else,” says Benny. “I wasn’t even sure if Eli was your real name, you know. Lots of you couriers work under different names.”

Eli hums. “Not a courier anymore.”

“Guess not,” Benny agrees with a one-armed shrug. “It don’t matter, though. You got better things to be doing than delivering mail, baby.”

“Oh?” Eli raises his eyebrows. “What sort of things?”

“Well,” he drawls, “now that you mention it. I been thinking. Swank told about how you been running jobs for him and helping out and all that.” He shrugs, gives Eli a grin. “Vegas ain’t so bad once you get used to it, baby. How’d you like to stick around for a little while?”

He freezes, glass halfway to his lips, and he takes a quick sip before setting his glass gently on the table, looking Benny in the eye. “That’s a joke, right?”

Benny raises his eyebrows, purses his lips. “I’m serious, Eli, all the way. We got cozy digs, plenty of booze. Ain’t no place better than here.”

“Look,” Eli says, taking a long, deep pull of smoke off his cigarette, “I don’t...” he shakes his head. “Why would you want me around here?”

“Baby, that wasn’t no joke when I said you and me’s got the potential to be an eighteen karat team,” says Benny. “You been doing small time stunts for Swank, which ain’t going unappreciated, baby, believe me. But you deserve a taste of the high life after all you been through, yeah?”

“You do realize that most of what I’ve been through is your fault, right?” Eli asks flatly.

He nods. “Yeah, I know, baby. That’s why I’m doing this, yeah?” He sits back in his seat and runs a hand through his hair, rubs at the base of his neck. “What I did to you was rotten, and I can’t begin to make up for it, but I’m going to try anyway.”

Benny reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a ring of keys, twisting one specific key off the ring and dropping it on the table, pushing it towards Eli with his fingertips.

Eli quirks an eyebrow, nods at the key. “You going to tell me what that’s for or… ?”

“Presidential suite,” Benny says. “It’s the best one in the house, baby, and I’m giving it to you.”

Fucking Christ. This day has already taken a turn he didn’t expect, but this? It’s starting to get… overwhelming. He honestly doesn’t mind the Chairmen all that much, and Swank is alright, and he really doesn’t care about Benny. But the idea of living here? Having a home _here_? It’s a lot to take in.

“Look,” Eli sighs, dragging a hand down his face, “I don’t even know if I want to stick around. This place is just too crazy for my blood, yeah? I can’t deal with all… this,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the crowded restaurant and the boisterous patrons around them.

“Hey, it’s just an offer, baby,” he says. “You don't got to take it if you don’t want it.”

Eli sighs, idly scratching at an old half-healed wound on the back of his hand. Part of him thinks it might be nice to know that he has a nice place to stay, with an actual bed and working electricity. Besides, it’s not like he has to stay here all the time, if he chooses to accept the offer. He can go wherever he wants, do whatever he wants. Having a room in a second-rate casino wouldn’t change that.

He can feel Benny’s eyes on him and he gives Benny a deep frown. He’s not letting this go until Eli gives him an answer, apparently, so he reaches out to grab the key off the table and shoves it in his jacket pocket.

“Excellent,” he says, clapping his hands together with a beaming smile. “I’ll tell Swank to give you some bigger and better things to do, yeah?”

“Good,” Eli says. “Thought I was going to shoot myself in the foot out of boredom with those errands he had me running.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, hey?” he smiles.

“I get shot at by other people enough as is,” says Eli. “Don’t need to put a round in myself just to have something to do.”

Benny chuckles and Eli gives him a small smile before he pushes himself up and out of the booth. “Anyways. The drinks,” he says awkwardly. “Thanks.”

“You cashing out?”

“Ain’t any of your business,” he replies. “But, if you got to know, I’m going to check out this new room of mine and crash for a few hours.”

“Sounds good, baby,” Benny says.

Eli gives him a nod and turns to leave, but Benny calls out his name and he stops in his tracks. “Yeah?”

“Just one more thing I been wondering,” he says, craning his neck to look Eli in the eye. “Why’d you tell Swank I was deadsville, hey?”

He shrugs. “Easier than telling him what really happened.”

“What, that you wiped out an entire camp just to save little old me?” he asks.

Eli clenches his jaw, gaze turning icy, and he turns on his heel and pushes his way out of the restaurant without so much as a glance back.


	17. Heartaches By The Number

Eli scratches at his brow and sighs when his fingers come away bloody. It’s been days now and the wound still hasn’t closed up or stopped bleeding, and he knows it’s going to scar terribly. Miraculously, it doesn’t seem to be infected, but the left side of his face is covered in long smears and streaks of dried, crusted blood from the constant bleeding.

Well, that probably explains all the terrified looks he’d gotten as he made his way inside the Tops.

Eli sighs and bends down to dig around in the cabinet under the sink for a wash cloth to wipe the blood off his face, wincing at the shooting pains in his legs. The wound on his brow is just one of many scars he took away from his trip to the Sierra Madre, a grim reminder of the nightmare he’d lived through during his time in the abandoned casino town.

The entire trip from beginning to end had just been one long horrific experience. Honestly, he’s surprised he even made it out of there alive. He’d been limping and bleeding and practically delirious from lack of sleep, but somehow he’d made it out with his life, though perhaps only just.

The others, however, hadn’t been so lucky. He’d killed them, all of them, every single one of them. The ghoul, the nightkin, that Brotherhood scribe, Father Elijah. They're all dead, broken bodies wasting away where no one will ever find them.

Maybe killing them all had been a touch too unnecessarily cruel, even for him, but he can’t bring himself to care about their deaths. He was… scared and angry and frustrated and they got in his way, so he took them out. At least he hadn’t made their deaths _too_ painful.

Except for Father Elijah, of course. The whole thing was his fault, and he deserved every second of pain Eli put him through. Killing that asshole was a mercy.

He’s still not sure why he’d followed the message on the radio to that godforsaken bunker. Eli’s fairly certain he’s never had a single regret in his life, and it’s almost embarrassing to force himself to admit this, but he regrets going to the Sierra Madre. He regrets it so much it hurts. He wishes he hadn’t heard that radio message, he wishes he could take the whole thing back, never set foot in that hellhole.

He finally manages to find a somewhat clean towel and wets it under the running sink and sets to scrubbing away at his face, desperate to rid himself of any and all visible evidence that he’d visited the Sierra Madre, desperate to begin pretending the whole thing had never happened. He still feels wound up, like he’s still there and it’s not safe to relax because one of those ghost people might get him. The tension in his shoulders and neck is so tight he feels like he might snap in half at any second.

It’s pathetic, how scared he’d been during the whole thing. He doesn’t get scared of anything. The Legion didn’t scare him, the NCR didn’t scare him, raiders, ghouls, deathclaws, none of it ever scared him, but some creepy assholes chase him around an old casino and suddenly he’s having a breakdown. Just the sound of the soft electric crackle of a radio is enough to nearly give him a heart attack, like he’s still wearing that bomb collar around his neck and it’s prone to go off at any second.

What if he _had_ died there? Not a single soul would know, and no one would care, and that’s... that's just the truth. No one would care.

That’s okay. He’s alone, he’s always been alone, and he always will be. It doesn’t matter where or when he dies. It’s not going to make any difference. He’s made sure to keep people away and that’s just part of the deal. No one will know when he dies and no one will care.

Eli keeps telling himself these things, and he wants to convince himself he doesn’t care, but his eyes are burning and his vision is blurry and, Christ, why is he  _crying_? What the fuck is wrong with him?

He turns and slams his fist into the wall with a wordless shout, and the dry, cracked skin around his knuckles splits, but he doesn’t care. He pulls back and punches the wall again and again and again, putting every ounce of his weight behind the punches until his hand is swollen and numb and the wall is smeared with his blood and the tears have stopped.

Two bullets to the brain hadn’t messed him up—well, not _that_ much, anyways—but one trip to a scary abandoned casino and he’s crying like a goddamn child. It's pitiful.

But… it’s over now. He’s… not home, because this isn’t home, but it’s somewhere safe, and that’s enough.

With frantic hands, he pats his pockets down, searching for the worn cardboard of his pack of cigarettes. He lights up and heaves a deep sigh, long and slow, wiping away at his eyes with the back of his unbloodied hand. At least no one is around to witness these breakdowns he’s had. Small mercies, he supposes.

Eli takes a moment to compose himself and finishes scrubbing the blood off his face and hands, splashes some cold water on his face, bandages up his wounds as best as he can. This is one of those rare times where he wishes Gannon was still around, helping him out, keeping him patched up. He always dressed wounds better than Eli ever could.

Still, he’d probably get Eli to try to talk about this whole thing, share his feelings or whatever. No one needs to know his feelings. He’s embarrassed enough about how screwed up he is after this whole Sierra Madre thing, and he knows Gannon would press and press until Eli either yelled at him or gave in and talked about it. Which wouldn’t happen, of course.

Arcade was… interesting. Nice, but a little too nice for his tastes, and most certainly not someone he’d let play therapist with him. He’d tried, of course, but Eli shut that down as soon as he caught on to him.

Talking about things doesn’t help. He’s fine, and he doesn’t need someone to hold his hand and ask him how he feels. He’s just… tired. He’s been sleeping less and less lately. This emotional nonsense, or whatever it is, it’ll all stop once he gets some sleep.

Sleep sounds nice. But, a drink and _then_ sleep? That sounds heavenly.

Eli tosses the towel carelessly to the floor and heads out of the bathroom to make his way to the bar, and stops in his tracks once he enters the main room.

Benny’s there, leaning casually against the elevator door, hands in his pockets. He looks up as Eli enters and gives him an easy smile. “Hey, Eli, baby. How’s it going?”

“Fine,” he says, a little too quickly, and of course Benny catches the forced nonchalance in his tone, and of course he’s not smart enough to just let the subject drop and leave him alone.

“You sure?” Benny asks as he pushes himself off the wall and makes his way toward him, stopping just a few steps short. “Baby, what happened to you? You look like you been crying.”

“I’m high,” Eli lies easily as he pushes past him to make his way behind the bar, heading straight for the bottle of whiskey on the shelf.

Benny moves to sit in the stool across from where Eli stands behind the counter, eyebrows raised, a frown pulling at his lips. “Come on, baby, you ain’t got to lie to me. We’re pals, yeah?”

Eli laughs dryly, but it’s harsh and entirely devoid of amusement. “That what you think?”

Benny gives him a one-armed shrug. “I think we got a bit too much… _intimate_ knowledge of each other to just be acquaintances, baby.”

Eli scoffs and takes a long drink straight from the bottle, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Look, we fucked once, Benny. Doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best friends.”

“Well,” he sighs dramatically. “I guess this means you ain’t going to wear the matching friendship necklaces I got us, hey?”

“Wouldn’t count on it, no,” Eli says with a shake of the head.

Benny gives him an easy smile and leans forward, resting his arms on the counter. “So, what you been up to, baby? You was gone for ages and you come back looking like a deathclaw chewed you up and spit you out.”

He’s quiet for a few long moments, sipping away at his whiskey, taking long pulls off his cigarette between drinks. “Ever hear about the Sierra Madre?” he asks finally, not meeting Benny’s eyes.

“Sure, I heard of it,” he nods. “Ain’t it just fairy tale stories, though? I always thought it was just that, you dig?" He waggles his fingers in the air, shrugs. "Just fairy stories.”

Eli chuckles dryly around his cigarette, drags his fingers through his hair. “Well, the stories are real,” he shrugs lazily. “That’s where I been.”

“Damn,” he breathes, shaking his head slowly. “You hear things, baby. Plenty of stories about cats going looking for it and never coming back.”

“Yeah, well,” Eli says, rubs at the growing pain in his temples, “I was the only one who walked out of there, so the stories ain’t all wrong, I guess.”

Benny pulls a deep frown, brows knit. “What are you talking about, baby? You mean you wasn’t the only one who went out looking for that place?”

“Well, I didn’t plan on going there, yeah?” Eli snaps, dropping the whiskey bottle on the counter carelessly. “It just fucking…” He stops, drags a hand down his face slowly, screwing his eyes shut. “Look, I don’t know if I’m—I mean, it’s a long story,” he shrugs. “Don’t want to retell the whole thing.”

Benny’s gaze is hard, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. Eli doesn’t know him well enough to read his face, so he’s not sure what Benny’s thinking, but it can’t be anything good, because it’s Benny and nothing with him is ever good.

He leans forward and pulls at his collar, clears his throat quietly. “Look,” he says, “obviously whatever went down there wasn’t good, yeah? If you want to… you know,” he shrugs casually, waves a hand in a vague gesture, “talk about it or whatever. Benny’s your guy.”

Eli laughs harshly and grabs the whiskey bottle as he makes his way around the counter towards the couches. “What are you, my shrink?” he asks over his shoulder, lips pulled back in a sneer.

“Course not, baby,” Benny says as he turns around in his chair to follow him, crosses his arms over his chest. “Besides, ain’t there some rule against them going off for a session of hey-hey with their patients?”

“Christ,” he mutters as he drops onto the couch. “You’re a real comedian, ain’t you?”

“Alright, alright,” Benny says, palms out in mock surrender. “I’m sorry, baby, hey? I’m trying to help, but I ain’t really very good at this.”

That’s… not what he was expecting Benny to say. Eli doesn’t understand him, not at all. Every time he thinks maybe he understands Benny’s motives and his goals he takes a hard turn in another direction. Apart from the whole shooting him in the head thing, Benny’s always been so… civil with him, so nice and attentive and, god forbid, _friendly_ with him. It’s... he's just not sure what to make of it.

Eli turns to face him, arm splayed out over the top of the couch cushions. “Why do you care? Why do you want to help me?”

Benny stands up from his seat at the bar and slides his hands in his pockets, gives Eli a small shrug. “Maybe I just want to? You dig?”

“No,” Eli snaps. “No, I don’t _dig_. Just tell me what you want from me.”

He doesn’t answer, but Eli notices that Benny won’t quite meet his gaze. “Get some rest, hey? You look like you need it.” And he turns on his heel and heads toward the elevator to leave, whistling as he goes.


	18. Crazy He Calls Me

“So, what happened next?”

Eli shrugs. “The deathclaw just picked me up and slammed me on the ground like a sack of shit.”

Swank whistles, shaking his head slowly. “How the hell did you manage to get yourself out of that one?”

“Wasn’t that hard,” Eli says, waving a dismissive hand. “Rex distracted the ugly son of a bitch while I unloaded the rest of my ammo in him.”

Swank laughs and leans back in his seat, folds his arms over his chest. “Yeah, sure, no sweat. Piece of cake.”

“I made it out alive, didn’t I?” Eli asks, eyebrow raised.

“Well, sure,” he says, “but you didn’t exactly make it out without a scratch.”

Eli glances down at the sling around his neck supporting his left arm, gives Swank an unconcerned shrug. “I’m alive. Doesn’t matter what happens to me along the way. Besides,” he says, “this arm is shit anyways. Might as well let it get even _more_ shit while I’m at it.”

Swank takes a sip of his drink—whiskey on the rocks; his poison of choice, Eli’s come to learn—and heaves a sigh. “What are we going to do with you, baby? You keep this up, they’re going to wheel you in here one day with your head detached or something.”

Eli chuckles. “I can make it through just about anything you throw my way, Swank, but I think that’s crossing the line a bit, yeah?”

“Well, that’s what I’m saying,” he nods, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the worn wooden table. “There are things even _you_ can’t survive, you know?”

“Christ, not the sermon again,” Eli sighs. “I’m still in one piece, yeah? That’s all that matters.”

Swank drags a hand down his face, scratches idly at the patch of stubble on his chin. “Why do you even still go out there, Eli?” he asks, voice softer now. “You got nice digs here. There ain’t no reason for you to keep throwing yourself out there to get shot up and blown up or whatever else you get into.”

Eli falls silent and picks up his fork, absentmindedly pushing the untouched food on his plate around and around. Swank doesn’t need to know anything. He doesn’t have to tell him a single word. But, as much as it confuses Eli and leaves him feeling profoundly unsettled, he finds that he actually _wants_ to talk to him. He wants to tell him about how he’s been feeling, why he’s been getting more and more reckless these days.

Usually he just keeps these things bottled up and locked away in the old mental vault, but with Swank it’s just… it’s different. Eli almost trusts him and… maybe even enjoys his company a little. He can be annoying and overbearing and always worries about him, for whatever unknown reason, but Eli finds that he doesn't mind it much, the worry and the concern and the care. It’s… strange, and not in a bad way, just... not something he’s used to.

It had never been that way with Arcade. Sure, he’d worried, but it was just different with him. Eli  _hated_ when Arcade worried about him and he’d told him many, many times. He never seemed to listen, though.

But with Swank, he’s not annoying—well, not overly so, anyways—and Eli finds that he doesn’t mind it much when he frets over him. Still, doesn’t mean he listens to Swank, but he’s not overly bothered by it, at the very least.

Maybe this is what a feels like to have a... friend?

Eli rubs at the knot at the base of his neck with his good hand, not quite feeling comfortable enough to meet Swank’s eyes. “Getting shot at is better than being bored,” he says simply.

He raises an eyebrow, a frown pulling at his lips. “So, you got in a fight with a deathclaw… because you were bored.”

“Yeah, maybe I did,” says Eli, a touch defensively. “Why do you care?”

Swank laughs lightly and leans forward into Eli’s space. Eli still doesn’t meet his gaze, just keeps rearranging the food on his plate with his silverware. “I care,” Swank says, emphasizing every word, “because you’re my pal. That’s what pals do, hey?”

Eli freezes. “Is it?”

“Well, yeah,” Swank smiles. “It’s a crazy world out there, baby. It helps to have people looking out for you, you know?”

He raises an eyebrow, lips curled up in a sneer. “I do better on my own. Never needed anyone to babysit me before. No need to start now.”

“I ain’t babysitting you, Eli,” he says. “It’s like I told you, I’m just watching your back, yeah?” A pause. “Is that okay?”

Eli shrugs, focusing his attention on an old blood stain on his jeans, idly scratching at the blotch with his fingernail. “I, uh… I don’t think…” He sighs, scrubs his hand down his face.

Christ, Swank’s not making this easy on him, is he?

“Look, do whatever you want, Swank,” Eli finally says, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m not going to stop you.”

Swank gives him a wide, toothy grin, reaches out to give his arm an affectionate pat. “I’m glad you stuck around all this time, baby. You ain’t half bad, you know that?”

Eli picks up his glass and scowls. “Don’t get any ideas. I didn’t stay for you.”

“What, so was it Benny then?”

Eli chokes on his drink, furiously fighting back a fit of coughs, quickly taking another quick sip of whiskey in an attempt to soothe the itch in his throat.

“You okay?” Swank asks cautiously, eyebrows raised in alarm as he reaches across the table to lay a hand on Eli’s arm.

Eli swats his hand away and nods, takes another long drink from his glass. “Yeah,” he says finally. “But, Swank, man, don’t just say shit like that.”

“It was an honest question,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Listen, like I said, I’m glad you stuck around, but I ain’t got the faintest idea why you did.”

“What does it matter?” Eli snaps, slamming his glass down on the table. “Maybe I just wanted to.”

The woman in the booth in front of them turns to give Eli an annoyed look and Eli sends her a hard glare in return, lips curled in a scowl. “Mind your own business, yeah?”

Swank sighs. “Cut it out, Eli. You’re going to scare my customers away.”

“Not my problem,” he mumbles, brow furrowed, bottom lip jutting in a childish pout.

The silence that falls between them is heavy and uncomfortable and neither of them says anything for several minutes, both avoiding each other’s gaze. Finally, Swank is the one to break the quiet, dragging a hand down his face with a sigh. “Look, Eli,” he says. “I didn’t mean nothing by it, okay? I’m sorry, yeah? I just though you and Benny were…” A shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Jesus, Swank, we’re not _anything_ ,” Eli says. “I hardly give a shit about the guy.”

Swank nods and leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. “Alright, alright. Can I just ask you something?”

“You just did,” Eli deadpans, “but somehow I get the feeling you’re going to ask me whatever it is regardless of what I say.”

“That ain’t true. I ain’t going to make you answer if you don’t want to.”

Eli rolls his eyes, but motions for Swank to continue.

“Look, I’m just wondering, hey?” he asks, combing his fingers through his hair, and he clears his throat. “Why the hell did you tell me Benny was dead?”

A shrug. “Didn't seem as bad as telling you what actually happened.”

“Well,” he reclines back in his seat, folds his arms, makes himself comfortable. “I’m all ears, baby.”

“You’re serious?” Eli asks.

He nods. “Course I am.”

Eli raises an eyebrow. “You really don’t know about what happened?”

“Baby, I ain’t got the _faintest_ clue what’s been going on,” Swank says with an exaggerated shrug. “All I know is you show up one day and then Benny’s gone and next time I see you you’re telling me he’s dead.”

“He’s been back on the Strip for, what? Two months or something? He really hasn’t told you anything?”

Swank purses his lips. “Nothing.”

“Lovely,” he says under his breath. “Well, it’s a long story.”

Swank smirks. “We got time.”

Eli lights up a cigarette and sighs, scratches at his forehead. “Right. So, that night I showed up here, said I was looking for Benny. He stole something from me and I was here to get it back.”

Swank sighs, his hands balling into fists on the table. “That… that _fink_ ,” he exclaims, brows furrowed, eyes wide. “What did he take from you, baby?”

“Called the Platinum Chip,” says Eli. “It’s how I upgraded the securitrons.”

“So, wait, maybe I’m just jumping the gun here, but if I’m understanding you right,” he says, leaning forward, gesturing wildly with his hands, “Benny took this Platinum Chip from you because he was planning on doing what you did? Upgrading the securitrons, killing House, taking over Vegas... That’s what he planned on doing, yeah?”

Eli purses his lips, gives Swank a short nod. “About sums it up, yeah.”

His nostrils flare, lips pulled back in a deep scowl, and he curses under his breath. “I known Benny my whole life and saved his ass more times that I can _count_ and this is how he pays me back? Going behind my back, the Chairmen’s backs, all for what? A goddamn poker chip?” He laughs bitterly, shakes his head. “Fucking _prick_ is what he is. And he thinks he can just walk in here like nothing happened?”

Eli doesn’t say anything, just watches his tirade with a vague sense of amusement. The whole thing is funny, really. If Eli were in Swank’s position, he’d probably be annoyed, at the very least. Thinking your boss is dead for months and taking control of the place only to have that power ripped away from you by the very person you thought was dead. Can’t be fun.

Oh well. Doesn’t affect him much either way, so he doesn't care much, really.

Besides, Swank isn’t entirely clueless like some of the other Chairmen. He wants his brief spot as the boss back so bad, he can figure something out. Eli wouldn’t help him, of course, but it would be interesting to see how things would unfold in that situation.

Eli takes a sip of his drink, a drag off his cigarette. “You done?”

He watches the muscle in Swank’s jaw jump and work, and he exhales through his nose loudly before he crosses his arms and shrugs. “For now,” he says. “But I’m going to wring that bastard’s little neck next time I see him.”

“Why?” he asks, brows furrowed. “Not like he’s worth the trouble or anything.”

“Not worth the—“ he repeats, but he stops himself, bites his lip. “Fine. But I’m still giving him a piece of my mind.”

A shrug. “Like I said, Swank. Don’t care what you do. Doesn’t matter to me.”

He snorts and straightens his tie, combs his fingers through his hair. “Most of the folks around here hate Benny’s guts, but you just don’t care about him, do you?”

“Not really, no,” Eli says flatly.

Swank sighs and waves a hand, leans his arms on the table. “Anyways, enough about Benny. How long are you staying before you head out again?”

“I don’t know,” Eli says. “Maybe another day or two or something. Need to stock up again before I head out.”

A nod. “Well, other than getting supplies, you got any plans?”

Eli shrugs. “Get drunk, kill some people maybe? I don’t know, I’m playing it by ear.”

“Well, listen, what do you say we do something, hey?” Swank asks, a smile pulling at his lips. “Just you and me. We ain’t ever do anything, you know?”

Eli raises an eyebrow, lips curled into a grimace. “Oh, God, are you serious?”

“Yeah, I am,” he says. “Come on, Eli, it’ll be fun. We can go out, get away from this place for a while, just the two of us. No Benny, no Chairmen, just a couple pals having a good time.”

“I don’t know,” Eli sighs, scratching at his forehead. Staying in with Swank and drinking with him is one thing, but going out with him? In public? With other people? That’s a whole other matter. Sure, Eli goes out to bars and what have you, but that’s always alone. Never with other people. The idea of going on a… date, or whatever he’s proposing, is just bizarre to Eli. Unheard of.

Well, not unheard of. He knows that going out with friends is a thing that normal people do, but it’s unheard of for _him_ at least.

“What, are you afraid or something?”

“Hey, screw you,” he laughs. “You say something like that again, I’ll punch you in the teeth.”

Swank smirks. “That a threat or a promise, baby?”

“Christ, Swank,” Eli sighs, rolls his eyes. “Come on, let’s just get the fuck out of here, before I change my mind.”


	19. Luck Be A Lady

Eli wipes at his brow with the back of his hand, chewing at his bottom lip as he squints at his cards. “Jack is better than Queen, right?”

“Nah,” Benny shakes his head, glances at Eli across the table. “You got it wrong way around, baby. The Queen trumps Jacky boy.”

Eli huffs and curses under his breath as he slaps his hand down on the table, crosses his arms. “I fold. This game sucks.”

Benny laughs brightly, gives Eli a nod. “You’ll get the hang of it, baby. It just takes practice is all.”

“Fuck your practice,” he snaps and shoves his chair back, jumping out of his seat to kick at the table leg with the toe of his boot. “It’s cards. Not going to waste my time on this shit.”

Benny raises an eyebrow and holds Eli’s gaze silently, watching him with those keen eyes of his. After a few moments, he motions to Eli’s chair and he clenches his hands into balled fists, but drops back into the seat, crossing his arms with a pout. It’s been at least an hour or two by now and he still hasn’t managed to get the hang of this godforsaken game. Benny’s won every single round, the smug son of a bitch.

Benny has never reacted the way others have when he has these little… outbursts. Arcade always got annoyed with him and Swank always tries to get him to calm down, but Benny just… sits. Quietly observing. It’s one of the few times he’s ever actually silent, just sitting there, watching Eli as he yells and rages and kicks and punches. He never tries to make Eli do breathing exercises or whatever inane nonsense Arcade made him do and he never makes him talk about it. Just lets him work through his anger the only way he knows how, and listens on the rare occasions Eli wants to talk.

He's never felt like anyone just _gets_ him, but with Benny, he just feels... understood. It's nice, really. He likes the feeling.

Benny reaches for Eli’s pile of cards carelessly strewn across the table in his anger, shuffling the deck and dealing out a new round with deft hands. “You up for one more game, baby?”

Eli takes in a deep breath and heaves a sigh, drags his hands over his face. “Fine, fine. But if we’re doing this, I’m sure as hell not doing it sober,” he says as he pushes himself out of his seat and makes his way to the bar.

“I like the way you think, baby,” Benny smiles and loosens his tie, shrugs out of his jacket, rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. “Who knows,” he says, “maybe once you got some booze in you, you won’t be so bad at this, hey?”

Eli rolls his eyes and shoots him an icy glare over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up, Benny. You’re not much better than I am.”

“Maybe not, baby, maybe not,” he agrees. “I ain’t half bad, though, you got to admit.”

“I’m not admitting _anything_ ,” Eli says. “Other than the fact that this game is terrible and I hate it.”

Benny sighs and leans forward, waves a hand in Eli’s direction. “Come on, baby. Only reason you hate it is that you ain’t aces at it.”

“Okay, first off, fuck you,” he says, pointing furiously at him as he leans against the bar counter. “Second, I know for a fact you don’t use the slot machines because you’re awful at them, so don’t even go there.”

He crosses his arms, scoffs exaggeratedly. “That ain’t true, baby. Benny just don’t like the slots, you dig?”

“Christ,” Eli says. “Why hasn’t anyone tried to kill you yet?”

“Oh, baby, plenty of cats tried, alright. They just ain’t succeeded.” Benny nods at him, sly smirk playing on his lips. “You included.”

Eli frowns, raises an eyebrow. “I never tried to kill you.”

“Putting a gun to my head ain’t trying to kill me?” Benny asks.

“I didn't pull the trigger, Benny,” Eli sighs. “I mean, it’s not like I actually shot you in the head.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just purses his lips and shrugs half-heartedly. It’s always like this when they’re together, always poking and prodding and seeing _just_ how far they can go with each other, testing their limits. Benny knows the limits of Eli's short fuse all too well by now, but Eli has yet to find Benny's. He’s remarkably even-tempered, never rising to Eli’s bait, never blowing up or getting angry at him. Lord knows Eli has gotten upset with him plenty of times, but Benny doesn't seem to even have it in him to get angry at Eli.

For a guy who shot him in the head twice and left him for dead, Benny really can be a well-mannered asshole and sometimes it's just so _frustrating_. All those months he spent chasing Benny across the desert, he had so many expectations, all these ideas of what he would be like, and he’d defied all of them.

Usually he knows what to expect with people, but Benny is just a closed book to him.

Eli returns to the table, a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses in tow, and drops into his seat with a huff, immediately filling his glass to the brim and taking a shot.

“Long day?” Benny asks.

Eli gives him a dry chuckle. “Ain’t every day?”

Benny hums and reaches for the bottle to pour himself a glass. “I'll say, baby.”

“I’ve been busy, though, so.” A shrug. “That’s been nice, I guess.”

He raises an eyebrow, gives Eli a nod. “Yeah? What you been up to?”

“I don’t know,” Eli says. “Stuff.”

“Well, I guessed that, baby,” he says. “What _kind_ of stuff you been doing?”

“Why do you want to know so bad?”

Benny grabs his hand of cards and looks them over, his expression revealing nothing. Either he’s mastered the art of the poker face or Eli’s just not good at reading him.

Truthfully, it’s likely a little of both.

He puts his cards back down on the table and crosses his arms, gives Eli a shrug. “Because I’m interested, baby.”

“You’re interested,” he repeats flatly.

“Course I am,” Benny says.

Eli rubs at the back of his neck, leans back in his chair. “I don’t know,” he says. “I was in Utah for a while. That was… something.”

“Utah, hey?” Benny asks interestedly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “What was you doing over there?”

“I was in Zion,” Eli says. “You ever heard of the Burned Man?”

Benny shrugs, gives him a short nod. “Sure, I heard of him. He was one of them Legion boys, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah. Anyways, long story short, I met him.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Really? Why was you swinging with that cat, baby?”

“Well, it’s not like I purposely went out looking for him,” Eli snaps. “There was an ad on the radio, some job that sounded interesting," he explains. "Well, the entire thing blew up and I ended up alone in Zion and next thing I know, I’m meeting this Burned Man and he just starts going on about the ‘Lord’s work’ or something.”

Benny laughs and pours himself another drink, lights up a cigarette. Eli feels some sort of satisfaction at making Benny laugh, at knowing that the stories of his wild adventures make Benny smile.

“So, all those stories and legends about him and he’s just an unhinged preacher?" Benny asks. "I love it, baby, I _love_ it.”

“Yeah,” Eli chuckles, “he was a weird one. And after Zion I just kind of... just wandered around, I guess. More weird shit happened, none of it all that interesting.” A shrug. “Now I’m back here.”

“You going to tell me about any of this weird shit?” he asks.

“No,” Eli says. “Probably not.”

Benny purses his lips, shrugs half-heartedly. “Fair enough.” He’s quiet for a moment, puffing away at his cigarette, and he gives Eli a short nod. “How’s the arm?”

Eli glances down, stretches his fingers out, clenches and unclenches his hand. The muscles still ache sometimes and he can’t use the arm for too long before the muscles start to burn and tingle, but it’s still usable at the very least, and that’s all that matters really.

“It’s fine,” Eli says curtly.

“Oh,” Benny nods. “Good. That’s good to hear, baby.”

Eli forces a tight smile and downs another shot of whiskey, drops his glass onto the table carelessly. Christ. Small talk with Benny? He’s not nearly close enough to being drunk for this.

Benny clears his throat loudly and tugs at his collar, runs a hand through his hair. “Hey, Eli. Baby. Can I ask you something?”

Eli narrows his eyes, folds his arms over his chest. There’s no way this is going to lead to anything good, but he rises to the bait and nods. “What?”

“Are we, you know,” he waves a hand between them. “You and me. We okay?”

Eli quirks an eyebrow, blinks slowly. “Depends on what okay is.”

Benny shrugs. “You know. We ain’t holding any grudges over everything that’s happened between the two of us. We letting bygones be bygones and all that?”

“Are you asking if I forgive you?” Eli asks.

“Yeah,” Benny says, chin raised, arms crossed. “Maybe I am.”

Eli sighs, gives him a shrug. “I don’t know. Who cares?”

“I care, baby,” says Benny. “That’s why I’m asking.”

Maybe if Eli knew him a little better, he could tell if he’s really being genuine about this, but Benny keeps looking at him like he’s waiting for an answer, and Eli honestly doesn’t know what to tell him, so he just shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. We’re fine.”

“Ring-a-ding,” Benny says with a smile. “Look, I know we ain’t exactly friends or nothing, but damn, baby, you are _platinum_. I mean that.”

Christ. Eli never knows what this guy is saying, but his life is so ridiculous at this point, he doesn’t bother to question things like this anymore, so he just raises an eyebrow and gives him a slow nod.

“I know this don’t change nothing, but I’m real glad those bullets didn’t actually off you, you know?” Benny says. “I dig you, baby, yeah?”

Oh,  _hell_. This better not be some… some goddamn sap session or whatever. Swank tries to pull that with him enough. He doesn’t need Benny trying this too. “What, are we going to hold hands around the campfire next or something?”

Benny shrugs, a roguish smirk pulling at his lips. “If that’s what you want, baby, I’m sure I can arrange something.”

“Oh, shove off,” Eli snaps, scratches at his greasy hair with a sigh. “Look, you ask me something, I get to ask you something, too, yeah?”

“That seems fair,” he says behind his cigarette. “Fire away, baby.”

Eli reaches for the bottle, pours himself another glass, downs the shot in one quick drink. “Alright,” says Eli. “So, how’d you do it?”

Benny raises an eyebrow, tilts his head. “Do what, baby?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” he says. “Goodsprings. How'd you track me down?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, ashing his cigarette idly as he blows out a thin cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. An uneasy silence settles in the room, the only sound the soft electric crackle of Sinatra on the radio. For a moment, Eli doesn’t think he’s going to answer, but he leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, points at him with his cigarette. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

A nod. “Alright. Well, Yes Man did most of the work. He was the one who did the digging around,” Benny says, reaching for the whiskey to pour himself a drink. “He found out you was the courier with the chip and where I should go to wait for you.”

“So, what? You followed me?” Eli asks. “Come on, just tell me. You afraid of hurting my feelings or something?”

“No, baby, I just…” He trails off, drags a hand through his hair. “It don’t bother you? Me telling you about all this?”

“If it bothered me, I wouldn’t have asked.”

Benny puts out his cigarette and sighs, gives Eli a shrug. “Okay, baby, okay. I just… wanted to make sure, hey?” He laces his fingers together, points at Eli with his index fingers. “Yes Man knew you had to pass through Goodsprings, so I went there and waited for you. We saw you coming up the road and one of those Khan boys knocked you out cold. The rest,” he waves a hand, “I think you know pretty well.”

“Yeah,” Eli laughs dryly. “I know the rest. I’ve been wondering though,” he says.

Benny hums. "What about?"

“What was I doing?" he asks. "You know, when your hired losers jumped me.”

Benny rubs at the back of his neck, blatantly avoiding Eli’s eyes. “Well, when I spotted you coming down the road, you was lighting up a smoke. I thought I’d give you a minute to have a last cigarette before, well…” He shrugs.

“How noble,” Eli deadpans, arms folded over his chest.

“Hey, Eli. Look,” Benny scratches at his chin, shakes his head. “What I did to you was lousy, yeah? It was more than lousy. It was downright _rotten_. And I know this ain’t going to fix nothing, but…” A pause, and he practically squirms under Eli’s hard gaze. “I am sorry, baby. Really, I am. It was just business, you know? If I would have known how—“ He stops himself, clears his throat. “Look, I’m just glad that I screwed up royally and underestimated you.”

Eli chews at his bottom lip, quirks an eyebrow. “What, so you’re just sorry because now you know I can kick your ass?”

“Eli,” he sighs, “that’s not what I meant. I just—“

He cuts Benny off with a raised hand, drops it onto the table, idly drums his fingers against the worn wooden surface. “I know what you meant, you asshole,” he says. “Look. I get it, yeah? I would have done the same thing you did to me, except I would have made sure you were dead. No grudges or hard feelings about that shit, because I would have done it, too.” A pause. “And, for what it’s worth, I don’t hate you.”

Benny stops at that, and his eyes go all wide, lips parted, and he works his jaw for a moment before shaking his head slowly. “Baby, I don’t even know what to say. You’re going to make me cry over here.”

“Christ,” Eli mutters. “Don’t let it go to your head. I don’t hate you because you’re not worth the emotional effort.”

Benny smirks and leans forward across the table, gives him a short nod. “Listen. What do you say we make this a thing? You and me and a deck of cards. I could try to show you the ropes, teach you some tricks.”

The thought of spending time with Benny on a regular basis doesn’t exactly sound like Eli's idea of a good time, but then again, it doesn’t exactly sound terrible either. He’s annoying, sure, and an ass, and insufferably smug and cocky as all hell and a complete dumbass, but… there are worse people to hang out with, surely.

Besides, they already spend some of their free time at the Tops together and he’s only asking for a few more hours. It’s not like he’s in town all the time and it’s not like he’s asking for _all_ his time.

Eli spares him a glance, nods at the half empty bottle of whiskey. “Will there be alcohol involved?”

“Baby,” he drawls, a sly grin pulling at his mouth, “of _course_ there’ll be booze.”

Eli drags a hand through his hair, rolls his eyes. What the hell. It’s been a while since he’s made some bad decisions and this seems like a downright awful one, so he shrugs and gives Benny a smirk. “Why not. I’m in.”

Benny returns Eli’s smile with one of his own. “Ring-a-ding.”


	20. Worry Worry Worry

“They did _what_ to you?” Arcade asks, eyebrows raised.

Eli rolls his eyes, swats Arcade’s hand away from the open wounds on his face. “Exactly what I said.”

Arcade sighs and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, folds his arms over his chest. “Alright, alright. I almost forgot just how difficult you can be.”

Eli huffs. “Look, I just spent a week running around some hell mountain after getting my insides cut out,” he snaps. “Excuse me if my manners aren’t exactly perfect right now.”

“If you were anyone else, I would count that as a valid excuse,” Arcade says. “But this is _you_ we’re talking about, Eli. Your manners are never perfect." He waves a hand in a vague gesture, rolls his eyes dramatically. "Though if we're being exact here, you don’t have them in the first place.”

Christ, he should have known coming to see Arcade was a bad idea, but it seemed better than going straight back to the Tops and dealing with Swank and Benny’s endless questions and fretful worrying.

Truth be told, he’s still not entirely sure if the whole thing actually happened or if it was just some bizarre fever dream. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dreamed up some wild scenario. Wouldn’t be all that surprised if this was just some Med-X induced delusion his brain had cooked up for him.

But, as much as he’d like to hope it had all been his imagination running wild, the scars and open wounds are pretty tangible proof that he hadn’t dreamed up the whole thing.

He reaches up to run his thumb over his lip and looks down at the fresh blood smeared across the digit, wipes it off on his torn, dingy jeans. Real blood. Real wounds. Damn.

Even though his time at the Big Empty hadn’t exactly been pleasant, it hadn’t been entirely awful either. Nowhere near as nightmarish as his time at the Sierra Madre. Some of the stuff he’d gotten into at the Big Empty had been downright thrilling. Fighting a giant robot radscorpion was the most fun he’d had in  _months_.

Still. Waking up in a strange place in excruciating pain, covered in wounds and scars and not knowing where he was or how he got there… The whole thing felt uncomfortably like déjà vu.

Almost a year has passed now since he woke up in Goodsprings with nothing but a gunshot wound and a vague memory of how he got it. An entire year.

He still has no idea what went on in his life before the bullets, but he thinks it’s pretty safe to say that the last twelve months have been more eventful than anything that happened in his old life. Nearly getting murdered, coming back from the brink of death, chasing after the man who shot him, sleeping with said man, killing the leaders of every major competing faction in the entire goddamn Mojave Desert, taking over a city…

It’s been a busy year, to say the least.

Eli hadn’t planned on ever coming back to see Arcade of all people, but he hadn’t exactly planned on getting his vital organs cut out either.

Arcade reaches for his medical bag and sets to work, quickly and silently disinfecting Eli’s wounds, cleaning away the blood, bandaging the new wounds and changing the dingy bandages on old ones. He may not be a spectacular doctor, but he’s always been relatively efficient. Some of the other doctors Eli had been to out in the Mojave were fucking terrible and asked too many questions and talked entirely too much. Gannon is nosy, too, but some of the doctors out there put him to shame with all their questioning and prying.

After a few minutes of Arcade fussing and Eli griping, he finishes patching Eli up and heaves a tired sigh, runs his fingers though his hair. “Well, there you go. That should keep you together for, oh, I don’t know…" He looks down at his wrist watch with a quirked brow. "Another few minutes at the very least?”

Eli scoffs, scratches at the stiff bandaging on his nose. “Good enough for me, Gannon.”

Arcade gives a dry chuckle, wipes his hands clean on an old towel as he drops into a chair. He crosses his arms and looks at Eli over his glasses, quirks an eyebrow. “Well,” he sighs, “I would ask what you’ve been up to since I last saw you, but I’d say it’s fairly obvious that things have been business as usual for you.”

“Oh, yeah,” he snaps, “because running around a crater that looks like it was tag-teamed by giant fuckbots is just business as usual for me. Fuck off.”

Arcade gives him a glassy look and a half-hearted shrug. “Well, at least your personality is as charming as ever.”

“And you’re still an uptight piece of cardboard,” Eli shoots back.

Arcade sighs, rubs at his forehead impatiently. “Look, Eli, as _thrilled_ as I am to see you again, if this is all you came here for, I think we can skip the dramatics and get to the part where you storm out again.”

A shrug. “I mean, it’s not the _only_ thing I came here for,” Eli says. “Haven’t seen you in a long while, so I got to make up for all the time I wasn’t there to give you shit.”

“Yes, well, that’s very thoughtful,” he deadpans, “but I do have actual things to do besides trade half-baked insults with you.”

Eli scoffs, wipes at his mouth with the back of a bloodied hand. “What, got some plants to study?”

He straightens his back, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, raises his chin slightly. “Possibly.”

Eli had thought that maybe he would have grown a spine in their months apart, but he’s right back to where he was when they met, wasting his life away experimenting on cactuses. Still as pathetic as ever.

“And you like doing this?” Eli asks, eyebrow quirked. “Sitting around here, doing busy work. You really like that?”

Arcade sighs, rubs at his eyes with quick fingers. “Why exactly do you care, Eli? What does it matter to you?”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Eli snaps, kicking at the dusty dirt floor with the toe of his boot. “Just doesn’t make sense is all.”

“What, the fact that I’d rather spend my time trying to help people instead of following you around killing people for fun?”

Eli purses his lips and gives Arcade a short nod. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

Arcade gives a thin laugh and combs a hand through his disheveled curls, scratches at his chin idly. “So, I gather that’s what you’ve been up to all this time? Same as usual?”

“Guess so,” he shrugs. “Same as usual.”

That is, if the crazy shit he’s done over the past couple months could pass for anyone’s ‘usual’.

Well. It might just pass for his usual now, considering how many bizarre situations he's found himself in lately.

Arcade sighs and leans down to collect his tools and organize them neatly in his doctor’s bag, sparing a glance up at Eli to give him a forced smile. “Well, you didn’t ask, but I thought you should know that I’ve been busy since we parted ways.”

“Oh?” he asks.

A nod. “It’ll take ages to create some sort of sense out of the complete and utter chaos you’ve unleashed on Freeside, but I’m trying my best.”

“Oh, that's it?" Eli laughs. "That's why you’re pissed off at me?”

He stops and leans back in his chair, shoots Eli an icy glare over his glasses. “Eli, if you _honestly_ think _that’s_ the only reason why I’m less than thrilled with you,” he says, “then your memory must be far worse than I remember.”

“Hey, no, don't play that game,” says Eli. “You followed me around and did your doctor thing all on your own. I didn’t tell you to do that.”

“And what exactly did you expect me to do, Eli?” he asks, brows furrowed severely. “Just leave you out there to get yourself killed?”

“Sure,” Eli says with a shrug. “Why not? Why would you even care what happens to me?”

Arcade huffs loudly, rubs at his temples with callused fingertips. “Look. You came to me and asked for my help, so I gave it to you. And I guess I thought that… I don’t know.” He leans back in his chair with a sigh, clasps his hands together tightly. “I like to help people. I need to feel like I can help someone, you know?”

Eli raises an eyebrow, shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

“Right, right,” Arcade snaps, waving a hand dismissively. “The point is, Eli, that I needed to believe I was helping someone, and I just… I thought that someone might be you. Evidently, I was very wrong.”

Eli rolls his eyes and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Shove off, Gannon. It’s not my problem that you thought you could put your damn messiah complex on my shoulders. Deal with that on your own time.”

Part of him expects Arcade to storm out or insist that Eli leaves, but he’s silent, holding Eli’s gaze with a stony glare, face betraying nothing. Maybe this is the closest he gets to being genuinely angry. He can’t be sure. The guy never showed much emotion around Eli, besides his chronic pity and compassion. That never ceased to grate on his nerves.

Christ, just being around Gannon again is pissing Eli off. It’s his only talent, from what Eli’s been able to tell. He’s certainly not talented at medicine, that’s for sure.

The silence in the dingy tent is thick, and Eli’s not sure if he’s waiting for him to say or do something, but Eli doesn’t move, just holds his gaze silently, fingers pulling at the loose fibers on the arm of his jacket.

The tear in the sleeve is still stained and crusted with his dried blood, a memento to remember his, thankfully, very brief time in the Legion’s presence. It hadn’t been brief enough, of course, because any time spent with those godawful creeps was too long.

Suffice it to say, he doesn’t miss the Legion one bit.

Eli probably could have gotten the jacket fixed months ago, or even just found a new one, but he’s had this one for too long now, longer than he even remembers, really, because who knows how long he had it before he waltzed into Goodsprings, dumb as a rock.

Besides, it’s just a tear. A couple safety pins, maybe some duct tape, and it’ll be good as new. No reason to waste time looking for a new jacket when he’s still got a perfectly good one on his back.

After a tense moment of silence and staring, Gannon finally gives in and sighs, takes off his glasses with one hand, pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. “Look. I don’t think you’re a bad person, Eli—“

Eli barks a harsh laugh. “Why not?”

“Will you just let me finish, please?” Arcade asks. “For once, will you please let me get out a sentence without you interrupting me?”

Eli shrugs and gives him a vague gesture to continue.

“As I was saying,” Arcade slips his glasses back on his face, eyes squinting as he readjusts to the change. “I don’t think you’re evil, Eli. I just… think you do bad things. But you’re not all bad. There’s got to be something under all that anger.”

Eli shoots up and out of his chair, uses the momentum to carry him to the flap of the tent. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ pull that shit with me,” he points at Arcade. “You followed me around for, what? Two months? You don’t know me,” he spits. “You don’t fucking know me.”

“Eli, I just—“

“Shut up,” he shouts, pulls his gun out of its holster and aims it at Arcade’s head in one fluid movement. “You shut the fuck up, right now.”

Arcade doesn’t so much as flinch, just raises his hands, palms out in surrender. “Alright,” he says softly, and Eli can tell he’s trying to calm him down. It’s the same tired act he always pulled back when they traveled together. It never worked then, and it’s sure not going to work now.

“One more word and I kill you and everyone in this place. We crystal fucking clear?”

He nods once.

Eli returns his gun to its holster with a scoff, lips turned up in disdain. He spits on the ground in front of Arcade and turns on his heel to leave, but Arcade calls out his name and Eli spins around and fires off a shot, just barely missing Arcade’s face by a fraction of an inch.

“You really don't listen, do you?” he snarls. “This really the way you want to go out, round of lead to the head just because you couldn’t keep your goddamn mouth shut?”

Arcade doesn’t seem terribly bothered by any of this, not by Eli’s yelling, not by the bullet that had narrowly missed his skull. Eli knows he’s doing it on purpose, the smug ass. Arcade knows it pisses him off, and he seems to be stupid enough to add fuel to the flame.

“I just wanted you to know,” Arcade says evenly, “that I’ve been keeping up with the local gossip, just in case they’re talking about you. I like to know how you’re doing.”

Eli is quiet for a moment, gun still trained on Gannon’s head, but he finally lets his arm fall, pistol held tight in his bandaged hand. “I don’t give a shit about you. I only came here because I wasn’t sure if I could make it to the Tops and I knew you’d be too fucking nice to turn me away.”

Arcade gives him a thin, forced smile. “Have fun with Benny. Or whatever it is you do at the Tops.”

“What I do ain't any of your business.”

A shrug. “Call it a doctor’s concern for his patient.”

“Yeah? I call it annoying as hell,” he says.

Arcade waves a hand. “Call it whatever you want, Eli. I just want you to know that I still think about you.”

He furrows his brows and scrunches his nose, lip curled in a sneer. “Keep it to yourself. I don’t need your fucking sympathy.”

“Okay,” Arcade says. “Take care of yourself, I guess.”

Eli gives him a grunt in lieu of response and makes his way out of the tent, through the panicked crowd of people gathered just outside the tent and out of the fort, finally back into the streets of Freeside.

He knew that taking Gannon along would be a mistake, and God, he really wishes he had listened to his guts all those months ago.

He should have killed him tonight. Lord knows why he didn’t, but thinking about it too much only makes his headache worse, so he pushes it to the side and shoves his hands in his pockets as he makes for the Tops.


	21. Tell Him

The shot of whiskey in his glass is sharp and smooth, sending tendrils of warmth shooting through his stomach and fingers and toes as it hits his throat and goes down. He feels hot, his cheeks flushed and ears burning, but it’s terribly pleasant, like huddling around a hot campfire on a cold night.

There’s been too many of those lately, cold and empty nights with only the stars and the scorpions to keep him company. It’s nice to be warm, nice to have a bottle of liquor and a roof over his head. Being here, on the Strip, in the Tops, in this room that’s slowly started to feel more and more like something he might call a home. It’s just… nice.

Funny, really. The fact that a worn-down hellhole of a casino in the middle of the desert would become the one place he could maybe see himself hanging around long-term. Whatever is happening to him to make him go all soft and domestic is a little terrifying, and he tries not to be worried by it, but the feeling bites and claws at the back of his thoughts constantly, like an itch he can’t scratch.

Perhaps most terrifying is the fact that he’s becoming accustomed to it, accustomed to the thought of maybe finding a place he can call a home, having somewhere permanent to lay his head. Staying here was never supposed to be a lasting thing, but for some unknown reason, he keeps on coming back. He always leaves, true, but at the end of every trip, every excursion, it’s _here_ he returns to, to the Chairmen and Swank and the hustle and bustle of the New Vegas Strip.

And Benny, of course. He’s always there when Eli comes back after a long trip out into the wastes, always waiting with a drink and a bad joke. It’s become a routine, these… meetings of sorts. Whatever they are. Doesn’t matter much what he calls them, Eli supposes, but he’s gotten so used to it by now, stopped questioning the practice, questioning him.

It’s almost a ritual now, something he’s just come to expect. Trudging into the Tops after a long period of travelling, greeting Swank at the desk, Benny spotting him across the crowd and making his way over with drinks in hand. It’s their routine, just how things go now, and Eli can’t say that he hates it, or even dislikes it. It's nice, really, to know he'll always come back to Benny and a smile and a drink.

Things with Benny aren’t perfect, of course. They’re not… friends, not really, not yet, and he doesn’t think they ever will be, but things are at least… good between them. They’ve come to form a sort of quiet understanding with each other as the months have gone by, the sort of casual familiarity that only comes with time.

He’s not the person Eli would have expected to form this sort of bond with. He’s the last person, really, but it’s almost comforting to know that there’s someone out there who understands him.

He knows he can’t let himself get used to this, though, this cushy life of luxury given to him by the Chairmen. He jots a mental note to make more of an effort to leave town and travel farther and farther away from Vegas. Maybe he’ll finally follow that radio signal out to the Divide and figure out what that shit is all about. Should be a good excuse to get away for at least a few days or so, clear his head, get some fresh, irradiated air.

Eli stretches his arms out over his head with a groan, rubs tiredly at the many knots in his muscles. It’s all in vain, of course, the tension knots staying firm under his rough, kneading hands. Christ, he can’t remember the last time he didn’t feel so tense that he might break in half at any given moment. Med-X doesn’t help much anymore and alcohol doesn’t help _ever_ and he’s relatively certain that there’s a healthy solution to something like this, but he can’t be assed to figure one out, so the self-destructive drug habit will just have to do.

Benny leans over to grab Eli’s glass, refills it with another shot before topping off his own, eyeing Eli with something like sympathy in his gaze. “Tired?” he asks.

Eli shrugs, sips at his whiskey absentmindedly. “I’m always tired,” he says. “Besides, that’s not the problem. I’m just…” Eli waves a hand and downs the rest of his drink, wipes at his mouth with the back of a hand. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” says Benny.

Eli gives him a dry laugh, shakes his head. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”

“I just mean you could use some rest, baby, that’s all.”

Eli hums. “I’ll rest when I feel like it.”

Benny purses his lips and rubs at the back of his neck, not quite meeting Eli’s eyes. “You, uh—“ A shrug. “You still on the chems, baby?”

A nod.

“They working?”

“If they were working, I wouldn’t be complaining,” Eli snaps.

Benny sighs. “Look, I’m sorry, yeah? I just meant you’re being awful quiet is all.”

“So?” Eli says. “I’m always quiet.”

“Fair enough, baby, fair enough,” he says with a nod. “You just seem quieter than usual, you dig? You been gone for a few weeks, I just figured you’d have some crazy stories to share.”

Had he really only been gone for a few weeks? It felt like longer. The days just bleed together too much and it’s hard to keep track of time when every day feels the same and minutes feel like hours and hours feel like days and days feel like weeks. Everything is just too slow. It’s unbearable, downright insufferable.

It doesn’t feel like that here in Vegas, though. There’s always some weird shit going on, always some spectacle happening. Things are always interesting around here, and though he always inevitably leaves, he always inevitably comes back.

Eli wonders where he would be right now if everything had gone according to plan all those months ago, if he had walked in here and killed Benny and finally gotten his revenge like he intended to. Well, for starters, he sure wouldn’t be here right now. Probably would have gone off somewhere to waste all his caps on alcohol and cigarettes and drinking and chain smoking himself into a coma.

It’s strange. He spent months tracking Benny down, months where all he could think about is how much he wanted him dead, but now? Now, he can’t imagine his life without the Chairmen. Without him.

Christ. He’s not nearly buzzed enough to be thinking about stuff like this.

Eli reaches over and grabs the whiskey out of Benny’s hands, takes a swig straight from the bottle. “I was going to kill you, you know,” he says suddenly, pointedly avoiding Benny’s eyes.

Benny stops, the glass halfway to his lips, a frown pulling at his mouth. “Baby, you got to be more specific. I’m thinking there’s been lots of times you were wanting to stick a knife in me.”

“That’s not true.”

Benny chuckles, takes a short sip of his scotch. “You ain’t the best liar, you know that?”

A shrug. “Not what most people say.”

“Yeah, well,” he smirks, “most people don’t know you like I do.”

Eli scoffs into his drink, runs a gloved hand through his hair. “You don’t know me that well.”

“I know you better than most,” Benny shrugs.

“I guess,” he says. “I just…” He gestures at the room around them vaguely. “The first time I came into the Tops. I was going to kill you. I had the whole thing planned out.”

He sets his glass down on the coffee table, leans back and crosses his arms. “Is that so?”

“Course,” says Eli. “You think I just waltzed in here without a plan? I knew what I was doing.”

“Yeah?” Benny raises an eyebrow, a devilish grin playing on his lips, that all too familiar glint shining bright in his eyes. “You had it all planned out, huh? Everything, baby?”

Eli rolls his eyes, folds his arms over his chest with a huff. “Don’t even go there. I only did that to get you alone.”

“Really?” he asks, and he actually sounds surprised to hear this.

“What did you think?” Eli asks. “You actually thought I came all this way for some mediocre fuck? I know you’re self-obsessed, but _really_ , Benny? Christ.”

Benny shrugs, forcing an air of nonchalance. “I don’t know, baby. I just thought maybe you did it because you wanted a piece of the old Ben man before you tried to swipe the chip off of me.”

“Hell no,” Eli says without missing a beat, but then he stops, heaves a tired sigh. “I mean… I don’t know.” He scrubs his hands up and down his face, brushes his fringe out of his eyes. “I don’t know. I just did it. We _both_ did that, yeah? It happened, but that was months ago. Don’t know why we’re still talking about it after all this time.”

“We ain’t talking about _it_ , baby, we’re just talking.”

Eli raises an eyebrow and chuckles, drags a hand down his face. “God, you’re an idiot,” he deadpans.

A shrug. “Listen, baby, that ain’t the first time I’ve heard that, and I got a funny feeling that as long as you’re around, that ain’t going to be the last time.”

He freezes, purses his lips in a deep pout. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know if you know this, baby, but you ain’t exactly the nicest cat out there, you dig?”

Eli’s face is blank and stony at first, but after a moment a wide grin pulls at his mouth and he laughs, _really_ laughs, harder and louder than he thinks he ever has, so much so that he loses his breath and is reduced to a coughing fit, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

Benny looks concerned at this outburst and reaches out to try to offer some sort of assistance, but Eli waves his hands away and composes himself, takes a sip of whiskey to soothe the itch in his throat. “Christ,” he finally manages, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “Damn it, Benny. You trying to kill me over here?”

“Tried that already, baby. It didn’t work.” He blinks once, raises an eyebrow. “Mind filling me in on what’s so goddamn funny?”

Eli shrugs, inhales deeply. “Jesus Christ. You’re upset because I’m not nice to you.”

“I ain’t never said that.”

“You just did,” Eli says, waving at him with an outstretched arm. “Christ. You really are an idiot.”

“See? It’s like I said, baby, ain’t the first time, ain’t going to be the last time.”

Eli rolls his eyes, busies himself with lighting up a cigarette. “What, you going to tell on me?” he smirks around his cigarette, smoking trailing from his mouth. “Trying to get me in trouble with the big boss man?”

“Yeah, yeah, look,” Benny says, “if you’re done trying to make me cry, what do you say we play a few games of poker? Unless you got other plans or something,” he adds.

A shrug. “Not in the mood.”

“Oh.” He purses his lips, gives Eli a short nod. “What exactly _are_ you in the mood for, baby?”

Eli slouches down in his seat, puffing away at his cigarette, shrugs again. “You ever going to tell me about the shit you used to do before Vegas?”

Benny looks taken aback, brows furrowed, a frown on his lips. “Why? You interested?”

“Well, I mean, that’s why I asked, yeah?”

For a moment, Eli’s sure he’s going to turn it down or brush off the request with some awful joke and try to steer the conversation back towards more innocent topics, but he leans back into the couch casually, rests his arm along the back of the sofa and nods at Eli shortly. “What do you want to know?”

His hand rests right near Eli’s shoulder, his fingers only a few inches away from brushing the material of his jacket. Eli looks back at him, but doesn’t quite meet his eyes, stares off at the wall behind him. “Doesn’t matter,” Eli says. “Tell me anything.”

“Alright,” he nods. “I mean, really, baby, there’s not much to tell, other than what you already know.”

Eli hums, watches the tendrils of smoke billow from his nose and mouth in thin clouds. “If you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.”

“No, no,” Benny says, “it ain’t that. It’s just… that was all a long time ago, you know? That ain’t my life no more.”

He laughs dryly, takes a long pull off his cigarette. “Yeah, I know how that goes.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Sure. Already told you about the shit with my memory,” Eli says. “Whatever I did before doesn’t matter, because that’s not me anymore.”

“Yeah, I recall,” he says, voice soft. “You, uh… you still don’t remember nothing?”

"Nope," Eli shakes his head. “Don’t want to, either, so it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Hey, believe you me, I respect that, baby. I been trying to leave that old life behind for too damn long, you dig?” A shrug. “It’s good to know that you get it, Eli.”

Eli huffs, ashes his cigarette absentmindedly. “Yeah, yeah, enough with that bullshit. This ain’t a therapy session, buddy,” he says, but there’s no real malice in his tone, only vague amusement.

Benny laughs and gives Eli's shoulder a squeeze before he pushes himself up off the couch and brushes his hands down his suit, adjusts his tie with quick fingers. “Anywho, baby, I talked your ear off enough for one night. It’s about time I cashed out and got some shut-eye.” He pauses, a sheepish smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “See you tomorrow?”

Benny has dimples when he smiles. Eli never noticed that, not until now, and he finds his gaze lingering on his smile, on his dimples, on his lips. He realizes after a few long seconds that he’s probably staring, and shifts his gaze, clears his throat. “Nah,” he says, shifting awkwardly in his seat. “Planned on leaving tomorrow.”

Benny slides his hands in his pockets, raises his shoulders in a shrug. “So don’t leave.”

Eli chuckles lightly, and he can feel Benny’s gaze on him, seeking his eyes out, but Eli doesn’t give in to the urge, just keeps staring blankly at the wall in front of him. “That a request or an order?”

“Baby, I ain’t ever going to tell you what to do,” Benny says. “It was just—“ he sighs and worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, scratches at the stubble on his cheek, “—just a suggestion, yeah?”

Eli grunts in lieu of a reply, kicks his feet up to rest on the coffee table. “Goodnight, Benny,” he says, voice gruff.

The room is quiet, the soft crackle of the radio the only sound in the room for a few painfully long moments, but then Eli hears the familiar flick of a lighter and the spark catching, smells the acrid scent of smoke fill the air. “Goodnight, Eli.”

Eli doesn’t turn to watch him leave, but he hears Benny’s shoes scuff against the carpet and the soft _ding_ of the elevator car arriving, the metallic screech of the ancient doors opening and closing, and suddenly he’s alone.


	22. Everybody's Somebody's Fool

The thirteenth floor of the Tops is quiet this time of night, the guests still downstairs, gambling away their life savings at the blackjack tables and slot machines, throwing away everything for a cheap fuck and cheaper alcohol. Most of the guards sneak off from their assigned patrols to get plastered on the busy weekend nights, easily blending in among the thick crowds of people on the casino floor. By the looks of things, it seems like tonight is no different. Eli sweeps his eyes back and forth across the hall and steps out of the elevator, hands shoved in his pockets casually, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

Not like he expects anyone to stop him, on the minuscule chance that there’s any guards left meandering around on this floor. He’s spent enough time around the Chairmen that they know not to bug him. Most of them leave a wide berth between him and them, content to leave him alone after learning how… testy his temper can be.

Louie never had bothered him again after Eli had broken his fingers with a wine bottle at the bar a few months ago. The message must have gotten around at some point that he wasn’t to be messed with.

Some of the Chairmen had even mentioned to him that they left him alone because of his… association with Benny. He thinks that maybe he should be angry about that, that people only avoid him because of Benny, but, truth be told, he can’t be assed to be too bothered by it. As long as they leave him alone to do whatever he wants, he doesn’t much care what their reasons are.

Eli takes a final, deep drag off his cigarette and tosses the butt onto the worn carpet, stamps out the embers with the toe of his boot. No guards, just like he thought.

He pats down his jacket pockets for his screwdriver and a bobby pin as he makes his way to Benny’s door, Rex padding softly at his side. He hasn’t been up here to this side of the casino since the day he met Benny for the first time. Well, really, properly met him. First time doesn’t count, seeing as he doesn’t exactly remember that first encounter with him back in Goodsprings.

With a hiss of pain, he squats down in front of the lock on Benny’s door and sets to work, turning the bobby pin left and right, gently applying more and more pressure on the screwdriver until he finally finds the sweet spot and hears the soft _snick_ of the tumblers and swings the door open with ease.

Eli doesn’t remember much of anything House had said to him that day, right before he’d gone into the Tops, but he does vaguely remember him saying something about Benny having a sturdy lock on his door. Not _that_ sturdy, apparently.

Benny had mentioned once during one of their card games that he had some good, expensive whiskey that he was holding onto for a special occasion, or some such shit. Well, fuck his special occasion. He waltzes right on in and makes a beeline straight for the bar and grabs the bottle off the shelf. Don’t need a special occasion to drink some booze, not in his humble opinion.

He switches the radio on and drags his feet to the couch, dropping down onto the plush cushions with a sigh, Rex following suit and jumping onto the couch with Eli, resting his head on Eli's thigh with a soft exhale. Eli scratches at his cheek absentmindedly and works at unscrewing the bottle cap with tired fingers. After a moment of struggling, the cap loosens and he lets it fall to the floor with a dull thud, bringing the neck of the bottle to his lips and taking a long, long swig.

The whiskey is good. It's incredible, really, if he’s being honest, and he takes another pull straight from the bottle, wipes at his mouth with the back of a hand. He’d gotten too accustomed to the cheap watery shit during his time on the road, and while it served a purpose and was better than nothing, the good stuff is just… Well, it’s just  _good_.

Christ. Only two small drinks and he can already feel himself turning into an incoherent mess.

He drops his head back against the couch and heaves a sigh, grimy gloved fingers wrapped around the whiskey bottle. He’s been sleeping more lately in an attempt to soothe his constant exhaustion, but he still finds himself struggling to stay alert, even after a long nap. It’s almost like trying to rest just makes him even _more_ tired, like the universe is playing some sort of cruel joke on him. Eli never really concerned himself with getting sleep before, and now that he’s actually trying to sleep, he’s more exhausted than ever.

Maybe he’ll stay in town a little longer than he usually would in hopes of getting some real, refreshing rest.

Eli scoffs to himself and takes a sip of whiskey. Yeah. Fat chance of that happening. More than likely, he’ll spend all his time here drinking and scrounging around Vegas and Freeside for money and supplies, same as he always does.

He could always hit up the Lucky 38 and finally get around to clearing that place out for all it’s worth. House was an old asshole with older money, so he had to have left some nice stuff lying around that mausoleum.

Not that caps have been short lately. Quite the opposite, really, he’s got more money than he ever thought he would see in his lifetime. Still, there’s nothing wrong with having even _more_ money, not if he can get it just by digging through a dead guy’s place and selling all his garbage for drinking money and cigarettes.

Rex lifts his head suddenly, a soft growl rolling in his throat, and Eli can hear someone’s footsteps coming down the hall and the clink of a key ring jingling in someone’s hand. The door unlocks and he hears someone enter and flick the lights on and he throws his arm over his eyes, groans loudly.

“Well,” Benny says, “I see you let yourself in, hey?”

Eli doesn’t need to turn around to know that Benny’s giving him that same wide grin he always gives him, that  _infuriating_ smile of his. Eli can practically hear the smugness dripping off every word, and he imagines Benny standing with his hands in his pockets and an eyebrow quirked, all nonchalant attitude and aloof amusement.

“Man, screw you,” Eli mumbles, lighting up a cigarette, taking a deep, long lungful of smoke. “And turn out the fucking lights will you?”

“I’ll turn out the fucking lights if you get the mutt off my furniture,” Benny says coolly.

He finally turns around at that, frowns around his cigarette, levels him an icy glare. “Don’t talk to my dog like that.”

“What?” he asks. “You think he understands me or something?”

“No, I think I’m going to shoot you in the knee caps if you call him a mutt again.”

His brow furrows deeply, and Eli thinks he can make out the slightest hint of worry in his eyes. “You wouldn’t do that to old Benny, would you, baby?”

A shrug. “You want to find out?”

Benny’s quiet for a few long seconds, and he watches him stand there with his hands in his pockets, lips pursed, holding Eli’s gaze silently. After a moment, his shoulders sag and he waves a hand, gives Eli a nod. “Alright, alright. The pooch can stay.” He drops down onto the opposite end of the couch and gives Rex a few good pats. “Besides,” he continues, “these old sofas ain’t exactly the cleanest. What’s some dog hair at this point, hey?”

Eli shrugs. “Slept in a dumpster once, so this place is goddamn luxury as far as I’m concerned.”

If he’s surprised or even disgusted to hear that, he doesn’t show it, just gives Eli a short laugh. “Baby, you flatter me.”

He doesn’t reply, just takes another long swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, idly scratching at Rex’s ears with his free hand.

Benny heaves a sigh and stretches out his arms over his head, nods at the bottle in Eli’s hands. “Mind passing that on over, baby?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eli snaps, “give me a second.” He takes another drink and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, lets his eyes fall shut as he savors the familiar burn at the back of his throat, the fuzzy tingling in his fingertips and toes.

He’s drunk, he’s fairly certain, or if he’s not, he will be soon. It’s been a while since he’s gotten really, properly drunk. Might as well go all out tonight. Besides, it’s not like he’s got anything better to do, so he tilts the bottle back for another swig and holds it out for Benny to take.

He throws Eli an easy smile and reaches out to grab the bottle, fingers brushing Eli’s as he wraps his hand around the glass. Eli yanks his hand away and ducks his head, folds his arms and quickly unfolds them, takes to pulling at a lose fiber in his jeans. He can feel Benny’s eyes on him, but he refuses to meet Benny’s gaze, and his skin is burning and if he concentrates he can still feel the ghost of his touch on the tips of his fingers.

Christ. The alcohol must be getting to him even quicker than he thought.

Benny shifts around in his seat and Eli sees Benny throw him a smirk out of the corner of his eye. “Baby, the wallpaper’s going to start peeling off if you keep staring at it with that mean look,” he teases.

Eli spares him a glance and huffs, sinks down into his seat, resting his head back against the overstuffed cushions.

Dean Martin plays on the radio, slightly distorted through the soft electric crackle of the ancient radio’s speakers. It's a good song playing right now, always been one of his favorites, but Christ, the sound of the radio still makes his skin crawl, months and months later.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

Eli finally turns his head to face Benny, but still doesn’t meet his eyes, keeps his gaze trained somewhere past his shoulder as he gives him a half-hearted shrug. “I like this song.”

“Yeah?" Benny smiles. "Ain’t ever would have pegged you for a fan of the old Dean man, baby.”

He furrows his brows, frowns deeply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t mean nothing, Eli,” he says. “Just that I never thought those kind of tunes was your style, is all.”

Eli hums. “Full of surprises, I guess.”

Benny laughs at that, gives him a sly wink as he takes a full swig of whiskey. “I’ll say, baby.”

He’s not entirely certain if Benny’s teasing him or if there’s some deeper meaning he’s missing, but he just rolls his eyes and leans over to give Benny a light punch on the arm, a hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Shut up,” he says, and he doesn’t think Benny misses the fondness in his voice.

Benny leans forward and sets the bottle of whiskey down on the coffee table, throws his arm across the back of the couch. “Listen,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “I’m sorry that I called your old pooch here a mutt. I didn’t mean nothing by it, yeah? He’s a good old boy, ain’t he?”

Eli raises an eyebrow, gives him a blank stare. “You’re… sorry?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Benny nods, “I’m sorry baby. I am, really. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, even if they’re of the canine variety.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Eli laughs, folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t have friends, asshole.”

Benny purses his lips, gives Eli an easy shrug. “You got me.”

He finally meets Benny’s eyes, chews at his lower lip.

“Blue Moon” plays over the radio now, the soft sounds of Sinatra filling the quiet room. Eli feels the sudden urge to pull out his gun and shoot at the radio until the wretched thing stops and the room is completely silent.

“That what we are now?” Eli asks him. “Friends?”

Benny’s face gives away nothing under Eli’s careful gaze. “Ain’t we?”

Eli realizes that his heart is pounding, so loud he can hear the blood pumping in his ears with every beat, so he forces himself to take a deep breath, clenches his hands into tight fists, darts his tongue out to wet his dry, chapped lips.

Benny’s looking at Eli like he’s waiting for him to say something, _anything_ , but he breaks his eyes away from his and pushes himself off the sofa, snapping for Rex to follow. “I got to go,” he says quickly.

“You got to go?” Benny repeats, brows furrowed. “What’s going on, baby? You can talk to the Ben Man, yeah?”

He shakes his head, shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s… look, I just got a thing I got to do, okay?”

Benny doesn’t seem convinced, but eventually gives Eli a slow nod. “Alright. Well, you do what you got to do. Take care of yourself, Eli.”

“No promises,” he says, making a point to turn the radio off before he makes his way out of Benny’s room and down the hall without another word.


	23. Crazy

The sky is dark, the streets mostly empty when Eli finally stumbles back onto the Strip, his bag heavy at his side, the heels of his boots scuffing against the hard, unforgiving road. The rifle slung over his shoulder strains at his tired muscles, the muzzle hitting the meat of his calves with every step. Probably could have ditched the thing ages ago, but it’s not in terrible condition and still works fairly reliably. Should go for a decent amount of caps, if he can find someone willing to take it off his hands.

The cold night air bites at his exposed skin and he hunches his shoulders, pulls his jacket closer to his body as the wind whistles past his ears, whipping through the curls at the nape of his neck. He’s not surprised to find the Strip so deserted, even at this fairly early hour. Most people have already headed for the casinos and hotel rooms to huddle for warmth. That and more alcohol, of course.

It sounds nice, if he’s honest, spending a quiet night in warming his bones. The past two months have been taxing in every sense of the word, the desert as hard on him as it always is, and allowing himself to indulge in the luxuries of life on the Strip sounds incredibly tempting. Getting curled up on the couch with a warm blanket and a good bottle of something strong and hard and some crackling logs in the fireplace sounds like a dream right about now. He might even let himself get some sleep tonight, too.

It’s been a long time since he’s been here, too long, really. He’s been out wandering for at least a couple months, maybe even more. It’s hard to tell. Everything is a muddled mess, and he finds it near impossible to mentally organize the events of his life in some sort of linear timeline, as the days and weeks all fly by and blur together. Sometimes Eli checks his Pip-Boy for the time, thinking that only a few hours have passed, only to find that an entire day has passed.

Eli wonders if maybe he should be worried that he’s completely lost his sense of time. He thinks it’s something that most people might worry about, but it doesn’t concern him much, really. Life goes on. Doesn’t matter much if he can’t tell how fast or slow that time passes.

Eli pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand, exhales slowly. He hadn’t intended on leaving for so long, but things had happened and one thing had lead to another and before he knew it, months had gone by. Christ. He thought maybe after being gone for so long it would be strange being back on the Strip, but if anything, it’s only made him miss it more.

Fucking hell. If he gets like this after being gone for a few months, what’s it going to be like when he finally leaves this place for good? He doesn’t have any plan to leave at present, but it’s got to be inevitable, it has to be. This life he has here in Vegas, it’s too easy, too simple. He doesn’t get easy and simple, he doesn’t _deserve_ easy and simple.

From what he’s been able to piece together about his past life, he’s fairly certain he’s always been a wanderer, never sticking around in one place for longer than strictly necessary, and he’s certainly stayed in Vegas much longer than he’s needed to. Eli knows he’ll get bored with the Strip eventually, he knows it has to happen at some point, but it hasn’t happened yet, much to his confusion. He feels like he _should_ move on, but he doesn’t think he actually _wants_ to.

Life is exciting out there in the wastes, never a second going by without some weird shit happening, but life here can be exciting, too, in its own way. Sure, the political nonsense in the Strip is boring as hell, but some of the people are okay and the casinos aren’t too terrible. Not to mention there’s _always_ something interesting going down in Freeside, some new catastrophe he can throw himself into arising every other day.

Maybe it’s not perfect, and maybe it’s not where he pictured himself at this point in his miserable life, but things could probably be worse. He’s alive and kicking, and that’s all that matters really. Better to be alive and miserable than dead and rotting.

The bright, blinding light of the Tops sign flashes just up the street, and Eli can see a group of people gathered around in the halo of light cast by the neon bulbs, all of them with drinks and cigarettes in hand, thin trails of smoke billowing up above their heads. Eli pretends he doesn’t catch sight of that all-too-familiar coat and the man wearing it, ducks his head and shoulders his bag as he walks past.

For a moment, he thinks it’s worked and he hasn’t noticed him, but then he hears that all-too-familiar voice and he stops in his tracks.

“Hey, Eli,” he says.

Eli takes a moment to light up a smoke and take a long pull, slowly turning to look at him from over his sunglasses. “Yeah?” he asks finally, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other idly ashing his cigarette.

The group just behind them, mostly Chairmen, he thinks, judging by their matching suits and haircuts, are blatantly staring, not bothering to hide their prying eyes, desperate for any scrap of something worth turning into the latest gossip. Absolutely pathetic, they are.

Benny stops just a few feet shy of Eli, the harsh neon light above casting shadows on his face. He looks like a mess, hair mussed, tie loose and clothes wrinkled, dark circles like bruises under his eyes. He’s always so uptight and vain when it comes to his appearance, and Eli has no clue what’s gotten to him bad enough that he’s given up primping himself, but he’s not entirely sure if he wants to know.

Seeing Benny like this stirs… something in Eli. He’s not certain what, but his heart skips a beat and he almost wants to ask Benny if he’s okay, but he decides to push it to the side and ignore it for now.

Benny slides his hands in his pockets and raises a brow, gives Eli a short nod. “That all you got to say, baby? You been gone for months and that’s all you got for an old pal? ‘Yeah’?”

Eli scrunches his nose, lips pulled back in a scowl. “Fuck you, Benny,” he spits. “I don’t owe you shit.”

“Eli, baby, I been worried goddamn _sick_ about you,” he says softly, just loud enough for Eli to hear. “All this time you been gone, I been worrying every second of it.”

“Not my problem,” Eli shrugs. “I sure as hell didn’t tell you to go and do a stupid thing like that.”

“Well, you wasn’t exactly around to stop me, baby.”

He heaves a sigh, rubs at his temples with stiff fingers. “Look, I’m not doing this here. You want to give me grief about my choices or whatever the fuck, then be my guest, but not in front of this audience,” he says, nodding at the eavesdropping Chairmen behind them. “I’m going for a walk. You can either come with or not. Doesn’t matter to me.”

Benny opens his mouth, and Eli’s sure he’s going to protest and insist on working things out here in the middle of the street, but then he snaps his mouth shut, and he watches the muscles in his jaw jump and work. “Alright, baby,” he says, motioning for Eli to lead the way. “After you.”

Eli can hear the group of Chairmen whispering among themselves as he and Benny pass by, and it takes every ounce of his restraint to not turn and verbally tear them all to shreds, but he resists the urge and continues on down the road without looking back, Benny following along at his side.

Neither of them says anything for a few minutes, silently walking along the empty New Vegas streets. Eli watches Benny out of the corner of his eye as they wander aimlessly, sweeps his gaze up and down Benny’s profile when he’s not looking, and Eli catches Benny looking at him a few times, too, quickly averting his gaze every time their eyes meet.

It’s childish bullshit, this back and forth game they’re playing, but Eli can’t help but feel some weird sort of satisfaction at the way Benny keeps sneaking glances at him, the way he keeps close to Eli’s side, close enough that he can smell the stench of cigarette smoke and alcohol clinging to him, close enough that he can see the faint shadow of stubble on his cheeks, close enough that he could reach out and brush Benny’s fingers with his, if he really, really wanted to.

Benny looks over at him again, that same old infuriatingly arrogant, lopsided smirk pulling at his lips. Eli takes a deep breath and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead.

"You were right, you know," Benny says, finally breaking the silence. "You don't owe me shit and I'm sorry for what I said. It's not good for me to worry so much and shove that on to you, you know?" He shrugs. "It ain't fair, so... I'm sorry."

Eli swallows past the lump in his throat, nods stiffly. "Thanks."

“So,” Benny clears his throat awkwardly, “you want to let me carry some of that for you, baby?”

Eli shakes his head. “Can handle it myself.”

“Baby, don’t I know it,” he says. “You just look tired is all. Let Benny lend a hand, hey?”

Eli scoffs, flicks his cigarette onto the pavement carelessly. “I _am_ tired.”

Benny raises his eyebrows and hums, nods slowly. “You been gone a long time, baby. I’m surprised you ain’t out cold face down in the dirt.”

A shrug. “You know it takes a lot to knock me down.”

He laughs at that, loud and bright. “Yeah, I sure do.”

The corner of Eli’s mouth turns up in the slightest of smirks, and he’s grateful that the relative dark of the late night Vegas streets obscures his face enough that Benny doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t actually remember how long it’s been since he’s seen Benny, when he even saw him last, what they were doing. He tries to think back, but his memory still isn’t… spectacular, but that’s probably an expected side effect of getting shot in the head.

Still, however long it’s been, it’s been a while, that much he knows. At least a few months, maybe more.

Eli rubs at the base of his neck, fingers working at the ever-present tension knotted in the muscle, and he tosses Benny a glance, gives him a short nod. “You look like shit, you know that?”

“Gee, you sure know how to melt a guy’s heart, baby,” he says, the exaggerated sarcasm thick in his voice. “You use that on all the boys, hey?”

“Shut up,” Eli mutters, rolling his eyes. “Just saying is all. Look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Benny hums. “I could say the same thing about you, baby.”

Eli gives him a clipped laugh, lights up another cigarette with a shrug. “Probably because it’s been about a week since I’ve slept.”

“Eli,” he sighs and comes to a stop in the middle of the street. “Wait a sec, okay?”

Eli raises an eyebrow, but does as he asks and turns to face him, idly ashes his cigarette as he takes a few steps toward Benny, stops when he’s close enough to see Benny’s face in the dim light. “What?”

Benny sighs again, drags a hand down his face, rubbing at the thick growth of stubble along his jaw. “Look, I just—“ A shrug. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, you know? Running yourself ragged like this ain’t smart. You got to take care of yourself, baby.”

He doesn’t reply at first, just quietly watches Benny, puffs away at his cigarette, and Benny doesn’t flinch under Eli’s hard gaze, keeping his eyes level with Eli’s as they stand there silently in the middle of the road. They probably look quite the sight, the two of them. A couple of fucked up disasters staring at each other in the middle of a cold, dark alley.

They may not have a lot in common, but under it all, just past the thin veneer of Vegas glitz and glamour, Benny’s just as messed up as he is. He thought that maybe he would take some comfort in that thought, in seeing this side of him, in knowing that even Benny has his baggage, but if anything it just makes him... sad. He always just assumed that Benny didn't have any baggage, any hurt, what with how comfortable most of his life has been, but he's apparently got some of his own, too. And that's okay. Maybe... maybe they can share their baggage, together.

He finally drops Benny’s gaze, keeping his expression neutral. “Why do you care?”

“I care,” he says, emphasizing every word, “because I—“ He stops, cuts himself off, clears his throat quietly. “Because I do. I care because I do.”

Eli arches a brow. “That’s all you got? You want to tell me what to do ‘just because’?”

“I ain’t telling you what to do, Eli. Not by a long goddamn shot. I just…” He shrugs, a little helplessly. “I just want you to be safe, you dig?”

“We live in the Mojave, Benny,” he says. “No one’s safe.”

He knows he's handling this terribly, but stuff like this... he doesn't know what to do. He wants to say what he's thinking, wants to tell Benny that it's okay that he worries, but Christ, getting the words out is so much harder than he thought. He's being a coward and he knows it, but he just... he just can't do it.

Benny shakes his head, heaves a sigh. For a moment, he thinks Benny’s upset with him, but he runs his fingers through his hair, stands up a little straighter. “Look,” he starts, “All I’m trying to say here is you should stop to take a breather every so often, hey? Get some sleep, eat some food, anything to take care of yourself, baby. It don’t matter much, just _something_.” He lifts a hand, tentatively, slowly, and squeezes Eli’s forearm, fingers resting on the worn leather of his sleeve. “Can you do that, baby?”

He furrows his brows, looks down at Benny’s hand on his arm, back up at Benny. “If I say yes, will you let me borrow Maria?”

“Baby, you say jump, I say how high,” he drawls, that familiar roguish grin pulling at his lips. “I’ll let you take her for a spin around the old Mojave, but you got to promise old Benny you’ll get a decent meal and some shuteye, you hear?”

Eli purses his lips around his cigarette, gives Benny a short nod. “You buying?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, not missing a beat. “Baby, I’ll buy whatever you want, just as long as you eat _something_. I’d buy you a goddamn five course meal if you asked.”

“Whatever I want?” he repeats. “You sure? Don’t think you’d be saying that if I planned on spending all your caps in one night.”

“Baby, it would take a hell of a lot to spend all of this cat’s money,” he smirks, his usual smug arrogance back in full force. “Still, you’re worth all that and more, Eli. Ain’t a single cap in Vegas I wouldn’t spend for you if you asked.”

Eli’s not entirely sure what to say, so he ducks his head, and he can feel his cheeks begin to burn. Christ. “Anyways,” he clears his throat. “Let’s, uh. Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Benny smiles, gives Eli’s arm one last squeeze. “Let’s get out of here, baby.”


	24. Volare

“So.” A grin. “What’ll it be tonight?”

Eli huffs as he drops onto a stool, sends the bartender an icy glare over his sunglasses. “Oh, fuck off, Denise. You know what I’m going to order.”

“Alright, alright,” Denise says, palms raised. “Goddamn. Just checking.”

Eli gives her a grunt, waves a hand dismissively. “Just get my booze and I’ll forget about it.”

Denise scoffs, rolls her eyes. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” She turns and grabs a bottle and a glass off the shelf, sets the glass on the counter carefully. “I’m cutting you off at five tonight.”

“ _Five_?” Eli repeats incredulously. “You’re kidding, I hope.”

“I’m serious,” Denise says, shaking her head. “Nothing good happens when I let you have more than five, kid. I’m tired of scraping fools up off the floor every time your drunk ass flies off the hinge and wrecks shop.”

Eli shrugs. “Not my fault that everyone who comes here is a piece of shit looking for a fight.”

Denise raises an eyebrow, purses her lips. “You do realize you’re one of those pieces of shit looking for a fight, I hope.”

“Look,” Eli sighs, “you going to give me my alcohol or what?”

“I’m serious about the five drinks, kid,” she says. “You get your five and that’s it.”

“Make it six and I’ll give you a tip.”

Denise crosses her arms, narrows her eyes. “How much of a tip we talking here?”

A shrug. “A hundred caps sound good?”

She doesn’t respond right away, just eyes Eli with a hard gaze, before she finally relents, gives Eli a nod. “Alright, six drinks. But that’s it, kid, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eli mutters, digging through his bag and tossing a bag of caps on the counter carelessly. “Come on, drink, now.”

Denise pockets the money with a smile and pours a generous glass, gives Eli a short nod. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Eli heaves a sigh and downs the shot in one quick drink, wipes at his mouth with the back of a gloved hand. The whiskey here in the Atomic Wrangler might not be great, but it’s dirt cheap. Come to think of it, the whiskey here _tastes_ like dirt, too.

Still. Cheap.

The Wrangler is a dump, but as much as he hates Freeside, it’s nice to get away Vegas every now and then, take a break from the tourists and the fancy parties and the extravagant nonsense and just dive headfirst back into the scum and crime here in lowlife central.

Business is slow in the Wrangler tonight, only a few odd customers at the bar, a few more hunched over the slot machines on the far side of the room. Freeside never really recovered from the utter mayhem after Hoover Dam, and while the general atmosphere had eventually calmed to a more orderly chaos, businesses had never quite managed to get back on their feet after all that had happened. People in Freeside just don’t have the caps to spend on alcohol and sex and gambling anymore. Truth be told, Eli’s half surprised that this place is even still open, but the Garrets have managed to keep the Wrangler alive, somehow.

The man on the stool next to him, Eli’s begun to notice, keeps sending him quick glances, taking small sips of his drink, glancing in Eli’s direction again. He wonders if he thinks he’s actually being coy about it, or if he knows just how obvious he is. He’s starting to remember why he hasn’t hit this place up in a while.

Eli finishes off his second drink and nods at the man, clenches and unclenches his jaw. “The hell you want?”

The man doesn’t acknowledge him, just keeps his full attention on his drink.

“Hey,” Eli says, a little louder this time. “You hear me, asshole?”

The man sets his now empty bottle of beer on the counter, still pointedly ignoring Eli, and wordlessly motions to Denise for another round of beer, wiping the foam from his mustache with a sleeve. He’s an ugly one, unruly beard and stringy hair, the stench of piss and alcohol clinging to him heavily. Eli doesn’t think he knows him, and he certainly doesn’t recognize him, but that doesn’t really mean much. He doesn’t recognize a lot of people these days.

Maybe he’s someone from his old life? Even if he is, doesn’t give him the right to keep looking at him like that.

“Listen, I don’t know who you are,” Eli spits, “but mind your own goddamn business. No one ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

The man reaches for the full bottle Denise leaves in front of him and takes a swig, silently staring a hole into the wall. Still ignoring him.

He snaps.

“Hey, listen to me,” Eli shouts, and he can feel everyone’s eyes on him, the small crowd in the casino eagerly turning their collective attention to the commotion.

Still nothing. Not so much as a goddamn _flinch_ from the man.

Eli lunges forward and grabs a fistful of his coat, pulls his gun from its holster and aims it square at the man’s temple. “Fucking _look at me!_ ”

A hush settles over the Wrangler, everyone falling silent.

The man at the bar takes one last drink and sets his bottle down on the counter, the dull _thud_ of glass against wood echoing through the room. He finally starts to turn to face Eli and then, before he can even register what’s happening, the man reaches up a quick hand to grab him by the hair and slams Eli’s face down onto the bar counter.

Eli hears a sickening _crunch_ as his face meets the worn wood and feels blood gushing down his face, and he immediately knows his nose is broken again. The man still has his hand in Eli’s hair, and he pulls Eli’s head back, slams him down onto the counter again. He tries to fight back, but he can’t feel his gun in his hand anymore, and when he tries to get in a punch or a scratch or _something_ , the man just grips Eli’s hair harder, pulls his head back, slams him down again.

The man finally releases his vice-like grip on Eli’s hair after a few more slams to the counter, and Eli can barely breathe, can barely move or see or understand what’s happening, and he thinks for a moment that it’s over and the man is satisfied and Eli can get to beating the shit out of him, but he manages to look up just in time to see the man pick up an empty beer bottle and swing it at Eli’s face in one quick motion.

The force of the blow knocks him back off his seat and onto the floor and he gasps for breath, clutches at his chest. His heart is pounding, too fast, way too fast, he’s fairly certain one of his ribs is fractured, and hell, if he doesn’t do something he might actually _die_ here.

Got to do something. Something now, something fast.

Gun. Got to find the gun.

Eli sticks his arms out, blindly fumbling with shaking hands, and he tries to roll over on his stomach, but the man laughs and stomps a booted heel down onto Eli’s left arm, shifting all his weight forward and down on his forearm, and he cries out in pain.

He’s got a knife in his jacket. Get the knife. Now.

The man keeps shifting his weight back onto his right foot, forward onto his left foot, apparently making every effort to crush the bones in Eli’s arm. He’s saying something, but Eli can’t make it out, everything is too much, the pain, the noise, his heart racing, his brain screaming at him to do something, _anything_.

God, this is bad.

Eli darts his hand into his jacket pocket while the man is otherwise occupied, desperately fishing around for his knife, hands shaking uncontrollably. Christ, what pocket does he keep his knife in? He can’t remember, fucking hell, _he can’t remember_.

The man seems to notice Eli rifling through his pockets and shouts something incomprehensible, moving a hand to his side.

Holster. He’s got a gun. He’s going to shoot him.

Eli scrambles, moves to the inner pockets of his jacket, and finally, _finally_ his fingers meet cool metal and he grabs the knife, flicks the blade out, and buries it to the hilt in the meat of the man’s calf. He falls forward to clutch at his leg, mouth agape in a cry of pain, and Eli takes the opportunity to roll over and stab him again, and again and again, everywhere and anywhere he can reach until the man is nothing more than a bloodied, gurgling mess on the floor.

Whether he’s actually dead or not, Eli’s not entirely sure, but it’s fairly safe to say he’s not going much of anywhere. Neither is he, apparently, as seemingly every single muscle in his entire body screams in burning, all-encompassing agony. He tries to move, tries to push himself up, but his left arm is useless and he’s so dizzy that he’s not sure if he could get upright even if he _did_ make it on up and on his feet.

God, but his eyelids are so heavy, it would be so easy to just let them fall shut…

It’s tempting, it’s so, so tempting, but he’s honestly not sure if he’d open his eyes again if he gave in. Certainly no one here gives enough of a damn to get him out of here and somewhere quiet, not even Denise. His only option is to get out of here by himself, as soon as possible.

Right. This isn’t going to be fun.

Eli takes in a deep, shuddering breath and slowly, with a considerable amount of effort, manages to push himself up onto his knees, clinging to the closest bar stool for support. Man, he must be one pathetic sight. Bloodied and beaten within an inch of his life, desperately hanging on to a grimy stool. He needs to get out of here.

The Tops. Got to get back to the Tops. It’s the first place to come to mind. He can go upstairs and clean himself up and shoot up an outrageous amount of Med-X and drink himself into a coma. Better to bleed out on a nice couch than a grimy bar floor.

He exhales, takes in another breath, and musters all his strength to push himself up onto his feet, biting down on his bottom lip to keep from crying out in pain. It takes him a moment to get his balance, but he’s fairly steady on his feet. The room is spinning and he’s not entirely sure which way is up and which is down, but he’s not dead yet, so. Good enough.

Eli spares one last glance back over his shoulder at the man on the floor—well, what’s left of him, anyway—and watches his chest rise and fall erratically, his heart desperately fighting to keep blood pumping, lungs working to keep breathing. Eli could slit his throat, give himself the satisfaction of killing him directly, and as nice as that sounds, letting the man suffer until he finally bleeds out sounds like a more fitting punishment. The bastard deserves to die as slowly and painfully as possible.

He scowls, leans forward, and spits on the man’s soon-to-be lifeless form, just to give him one final insult, before turning and limping out of the Wrangler and into the cold Mojave night. The Tops is a decent walk from here, and he’s honestly not sure if he can make it that far, but anything’s better than sticking around here and dying in the middle of the street like a pathetic piece of shit.

Eli keeps his head down and ignores the stares from everyone he passes, tries to keep to side roads and back alleys as he crosses Freeside, but it’s hard to stay inconspicuous while covered in blood and bruised and beat to absolute hell. No one stops him or tries to talk to him, at least, and while people seem eager to gawk and gape, they seem even _more_ eager to stay as far away from Eli as possible.

Good. He’d kill anyone who got too close.

Well, he’d try to, at least. Probably not in the best state for more cold-blooded murders at the moment, but he’d give it his best shot.

The trek back to the Tops takes him much longer than it usually would, and he has to stop every few minutes to catch his breath and gather his strength, but after nearly half an hour of pathetic stumbling and staggering through Freeside, he finally makes it back to the casino and into the lobby.

Benny turns as soon as he enters and his mouth immediately falls open, eyes going wide. He crosses the room quickly, tossing his cigarette on the floor and ditching his drink along the way. “Eli, baby,” he says, resting a hand on Eli’s shoulder lightly, “what the hell happened to you?”

Eli doesn’t meet his eyes, just shrugs half-heartedly. Honestly, he’s not even sure how to answer that. He’s still trying to understand what happened, but thinking hurts too much and his thoughts are fuzzy and he just feels absolutely rattled, to his very core. It reminds him a bit of how he’d felt when he woke up in Goodsprings, truth be told, but he doesn’t tell _him_ that.

Benny frowns when Eli doesn’t give him an answer, but he doesn’t press, just nods slowly. “It’s okay,” he says. “I got you. You’re okay, hey? Benny’s going to take care of you.”

Eli licks his lips, swallows past the dry lump in his throat, and gives him a nod. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he says, hand moving back to rest on Eli’s shoulder blade. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you out of here.”

He guides Eli across the casino floor, the crowds giving the two of them a wide berth, and ushers him into the elevator to the Presidential, hand still resting at his back, murmuring soft reassurances in his ear. It’s nice, his touch, his voice, all of it, all of _him_.

He must be concussed to all hell, but he can’t bring himself to over think any of this. Whatever else is happening right now, he’s here and he’s warm and Eli’s so cold and having Benny here is… good.

It’s good, it’s just so  _good_ and that’s all he cares about right now.

The elevator finally stops and the doors open to the Presidential and Benny walks Eli inside and helps him into a chair, hand still resting at his back. His touch is light, but it gives Eli something to focus on, something to keep him grounded and conscious.

Maybe if he wasn’t so exhausted he’d give Benny an icy stare and some sarcastic ass line about how he’s not a cripple, he can get into a chair just fine, thanks, but he doesn’t have the energy to pretend like Benny’s help isn’t welcome, _wanted_ even.

Everything hurts, everywhere, every muscle and fiber and nerve burning and screaming, but his head, _god_ , his head is throbbing violently, every pulse bringing a fresh wave of pain with it, and his eyes are burning and he can’t see straight, the edges of his vision fuzzy and black. Christ, he thought his usual headaches were bad, but this is agony, and he doubles over in pain, resting his head in his shaky hands.

“Hey,” Benny says softly, “I’m here, baby. Benny’s going to fix you right up, okay?” He squeezes Eli’s knee gently, swipes his thumb back and forth over the thin material of Eli’s jeans. “I ain’t going nowhere, Eli. You dig?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth and pushes himself back upright—with Benny’s help—and manages a short nod, biting down hard on his bottom lip to distract himself from the pain in his head. “Yeah,” he says, exhaling shakily. He wets his cracked lips, nod towards the other end of the room. “My bag. Got shit in there.”

Benny nods and crosses the room quickly to grab Eli’s backpack, in the same spot Eli had left it just hours ago, tossed carelessly in the corner. He brings a chair and a clean rag he grabs from the bar counter with him on the way back and drops onto the seat with a sigh, rummaging through the contents of Eli’s bag until he finally finds the stims and Med-X Eli always carries at the bottom of his bag, beneath all the various junk and scraps he finds out in the wastes.

Eli watches as Benny shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it to the side, rolls the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up to his elbows, Eli’s eyes trailing down his forearms to his fingers and back up again, over the faded scars and puckered skin from poorly healed wounds. If Eli thinks hard enough, he can almost remember the way Benny's skin felt under his fingers that night in his room, how surprisingly warm and soft he’d been. He has the sudden inexplicable urge to reach out and brush his arm with his fingertips, but he shakes it off, pushes the thought to the side.

Benny administers the stimpaks first, and the relief is immediate, the absence of pain so sudden it leaves Eli a bit breathless. The Med-X comes next, a smaller dose than he’d usually take—at Benny’s insistence—but it’s better than no Med-X.

“Didn’t know you had medic training,” Eli says casually.

Benny shrugs, sets the used needles to the side. “We all needed to know a bit of everything back then, baby,” he says. “Made life a lot easier if you could just patch yourself up instead of sitting on your ass waiting for a medic, you dig?”

He hums. “Tell me a story from back then.”

Benny quirks an eyebrow, purses his lips. “What kind of story?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles. “Just…” A shrug. “Tell me about something crazy that happened.”

Benny’s quiet for a moment, rubbing at the base of his neck with an open palm, but he eventually gives Eli a small smile, motions at the blood-soaked bandanna still wrapped around his forehead. “You mind if I get rid of that so I can clean you up, baby?”

Eli shakes his head.

Benny nods and reaches out with hesitant hands, slowly unravels the knotted fabric at the back of Eli’s head and pulls the grimy material free, lets it fall to the floor unceremoniously. He grabs the cloth he’d taken from the bar and reaches out to hold Eli’s chin gently in one hand, carefully cleaning the blood from his face with the other. “I ever tell you about the time I beat a deathclaw with nothing but my own two hands?”

Eli raises an eyebrow, huffs in amusement. “Don’t think you have.”

“Oh, baby,” he drawls, “it’s a kicker, alright.” The corner of his mouth turns up in a smug smirk. “So, there I were, yeah? Just a man minding his business on a normal day in the Mojave, you dig? I was out on a supply run and I got a bit, uh, _distracted_ ,” he says.

“Distracted,” Eli repeats.

He nods, that same smirk still plastered on his face. “It wasn’t nothing like what you think, baby. I was just running on an empty stomach and was thinking about going home to some nice juicy Brahmin steak and a bottle of bourbon, yeah?”

Eli rolls his eyes. “Continue.”

“Right, so, like I was saying, I wound up in a nest of the little creeps, yeah? I think I’m lucky cause I don’t see old momma deathclaw skulking around and I’m thinking I might be able to sneak on out of there before she comes running home.”

Eli hisses in pain as Benny hits a particularly tender spot on his forehead, and Benny pulls his hand back, but he nods for Benny to continue. “Guessing that’s not how it happened,” he says.

Benny chuckles. “You guessed right, baby. I turn around to hightail it out of there and find none other than the lady herself and man, Eli, if looks could kill, I would have dropped like a sack of caps right there.”

He purses his lips. “So. What’d you do?”

A shrug. “I punched it.”

Eli blinks slowly, once, twice. “You… punched it.”

“That’s right,” he says. “Gave her the old one-two, right in the jaw.”

“Fuck out of here,” he laughs, meeting his gaze. “What happened next?”

Benny smiles, but it’s more genuine this time, softer, the corners of his eyes crinkling, his eyes bright. “I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh like that.”

Eli stops, shrugs. “Haven’t had a lot of reason to laugh.”

The smile slides from his face slowly and he drops his hand from Eli’s chin, tosses the bloodied rag to the floor. A few wayward strands of hair have freed themselves from the heavy pomade slick to hang down in Benny's eyes, and Eli wonders for a moment what he’d look like without the heavy coating of grease, what he’d look like without his hair styled. He’d look nice, Eli thinks. He always looks nice.

Benny reaches a hand up toward Eli’s face, tentatively, like he’s asking for permission, and Eli gives him a short nod, watching as his fingers move to the bullet wound scar over his left eye, his touch light, fingertips just barely brushing the skin there. He swallows audibly, clears his throat. “Does it hurt?”

“Well, I just got my head slammed into a bar counter a few times,” Eli says, averting his eyes from Benny’s gaze. “So, yeah, it hurts.”

He shakes his head. “No, baby, I mean—“ He stops, the words dying in his throat, and he reaches his other hand up to cup Eli’s cheek, the fingers at his scar gently skimming back and forth over the puckered flesh. “The scars. They hurt?”

Eli shrugs, swallows past the dry lump in his throat. “It’s… not anymore,” he says. “Not really.”

He nods slowly, but Eli doesn’t think he’s convinced. “Look, Eli, I just—“ He licks his lips, and Eli can tell he’s desperately trying to force the words out. “It was just business. You know that, yeah? I swear, baby, it was—“ He sighs. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Benny, don’t fucking…” He shakes his head, blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes. “It was a long time ago, yeah? Doesn’t matter now.”

“But it does matter,” Benny says urgently. “It matters to me. Eli, baby, I just… I need you to know that I’m sorry, really, truly sorry, baby.”

“Hey, look,” Eli says, “I… I forgave you a long time ago, okay? It’s okay.”

Benny laughs at that, the last thing Eli expected him to do, really. He swipes his thumb over Eli’s cheek one last time and lets his hands fall from his face, lips curled in a small smile. “Promise me you’ll get some rest?”

Eli shrugs. “No promises.”

“Well,” he sighs, “promise me this time, hey? Just this once?”

Eli pauses, gives him a nod. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Benny repeats. “Alright, good. You get you some sleep and I’ll be right here if you need me, yeah? All you got to do is holler and Benny will come a-running.”

He’s being overprotective and Eli knows it, and he’s certain Benny knows it, too, but Eli finds that it doesn’t bother him. Anyone else and he’d shoot them for so much as suggesting he needs help doing anything, but with Benny, it’s okay somehow. It doesn’t bother him. It’s… nice.

Benny helps him up and out of his chair, keeping hold of his arm until he’s steady on his feet. “Goodnight, Eli,” he says.

Eli ducks his head, not quite trusting himself to meet Benny’s eyes, and reaches out to brush the knuckles of his uninjured hand down Benny’s arm, starting at his elbow and making his way down to Benny’s hand, slowly, achingly slow. Eli can hear him breathing, hear the way his breath catches as he grazes the tender skin at his wrist, and Eli jerks his hand back, shrugs Benny’s hand off his arm. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and limps out of the common area and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.


	25. One For My Baby

The elevator ride up to the thirteenth floor always seems to take longer every time, like the wretched, ancient thing somehow knows that he hate elevators and wants to draw this process out as long as possible. It might not be so bad, riding in a tiny rusted metal death box up thirteen floors, if it wasn’t for the fact that every ache and groan of the ancient metal sends something startlingly similar to panic up his spine.

The trip up to the thirteenth floor is long enough that he has time to second guess this, coming up here in the first place. Benny’s probably busy entertaining some handsome hunk of eye candy he’d found downstairs, clumsily attempting to charm him with some terrible lines and suggestive eyebrow waggles.

Which is fine, of course. What—or who—Benny does in his spare time is his business. Besides, it’s not like he cares. He doesn’t give a shit. Couldn’t care less.

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if Benny is off with other people. Not his business, not his problem.

Eli sighs, scrubs a hand down his face, scratches at the thick growth of stubble on his cheek. As much as he tells himself he doesn’t care, as many times as he repeats it over and over in his head until the words stop sounding like words, until it’s ingrained in his head like a goddamn mantra, he can’t help but feel… something. Something heavy, like rocks in the pit of his stomach.

Shit.

So, fine, maybe he cares a little, but it doesn’t matter one way or the other. Christ, it’s not like he plans on telling Benny that he’s… jealous, or whatever the fuck this is.

I mean, fuck, this is all some hypothetical situation he’s getting himself worked up about. He doesn’t know what Benny is doing right now. For all he knows, the man is by himself up there, drunk and listening to old holotapes in his boxers.

The elevator finally screeches to a halt, the doors sliding open slowly, and Eli makes his way out and down the hall, not bothering to spare so much as a glance toward the Chairmen on patrol as he heads for Benny’s room. They’d just want to talk or some shit and Eli’s not _nearly_ high enough to pretend like he cares to make small talk with one of the nameless goons.

He doesn’t hear any noise coming from inside as he makes his way to Benny’s door and stops just in front. Maybe he’s asleep? It _is_ nearing two in the morning, so it’s always a possibility. Or maybe he’s just not home? Eli never keeps up with who’s throwing what parties when, and there’s always a party on the Strip, so Benny could just be out getting plastered.

Well. Only one way to find out, and he raises his hand to knock and stops just a few inches shy of the door, fist hovering over the worn wood, hesitating for just a moment before he takes a deep breath and knocks twice.

A long, silent moment passes, not so much as a whisper coming from inside, but after a few seconds he hears shuffling, a muffled voice as someone fumbles with the locks, and the door swings open and he sees Benny standing there, leaning against the door jamb, one arm supporting his weight.

He’s dressed down, more than Eli has ever really seen, a crisply bleached white sleeveless t-shirt carelessly tucked into black slacks, lit cigarette hanging from the firm line of his lips, and Benny's expression softens as he realizes it’s him, lips turning up into a smile, eyes bright.

Eli’s gaze flicks down to his bare arms, sweeping up from his forearms to his biceps to the broad set of his shoulders. He lets his gaze linger for a moment before averting his eyes, clearing his throat. “Did I wake you up?”

“Nah,” he says with a shrug, “can’t sleep.”

Eli nods slowly. “Can I come in?”

“Course you can,” he says, kicking the door fully open, holding an outstretched arm back to invite him inside. “Come on in.”

Eli forces a hard smile and brushes past him as he makes his way inside, heading straight for the bar on the far side of the room and grabbing the bottle of expensive whiskey Benny keeps under the counter, clumsily unscrewing the cap with his good hand and taking a long swig.

He watches Benny move to the couch and sink into the seat, kicking his feet up on the coffee table with a sigh. “So,” he says, taking a pull off his cigarette, “what brings you up here at this crazy hour, huh? You didn’t just come all this way to drink my booze, did you, baby?”

A shrug. “Maybe,” Eli says.

He laughs and leans back, laces his fingers behind his head. “Well, if that’s true, then I’d say you got what you came for, hey?” He turns back to send him that familiar crooked smug smile, but his eyes are softer, that plastered-on complacency not quite making it to his eyes. “That the only thing you came here for, baby?”

Eli takes another sloppy drink straight from the bottle, wipes the whiskey from his chin with the back of his good hand. “Does it matter?” he finally says as he makes his way to the couch, dropping into the overstuffed cushions with a huff.

Benny hums. “Guess not,” he concedes, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “But, since you’re here, pass the booze on over, will you?”

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” Eli says, kicks up his feet to match Benny’s posture and takes a long drink, swallows loudly. “Hearing ain’t what it used to be.”

He scoffs, folds his arms. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, still not getting it,” Eli deadpans, and he points to his ear, shakes his head. “Damn good whiskey, Ben. Sure you don’t want some?’

“Alright, I get it, you’re a regular comedian,” Benny rolls his eyes and grabs the bottle from Eli’s loose grip, and his faint smile doesn’t escape Eli’s notice. “When’d you start developing a sense of humor, baby?”

Eli shrugs, pulls at the starched stiff sling tied at his neck, scratches at the irritated skin underneath. “Never had a sense of humor, dipshit.”

Benny mumbles something unintelligible under his breath and good-naturedly swats Eli’s hand away from the patch of angry skin at his neck. “Cut that out, hey?” He fusses with the thick, itchy material, pulls it back from the irritated area as he inspects the damage. “You want something for that, baby?”

Eli shakes his head, pulls the sling up to cover his exposed neck. “I’m fine,” he says.

“You don’t look fine,” Benny retorts.

Eli scowls. “Yeah, screw you too.”

“I’m just—“ He stops, heaves a sigh. “I worry about you, Eli. I mean, look at you, baby,” he gestures up and down with a waved hand, “you’re falling apart at the goddamn seams.”

“I’m fine,” Eli repeats, firmer this time. “Don’t need to worry about me.”

“Well, ain’t nothing you can do about that, baby,” he says, folding his arms. “Benny’s a lot of things, baby, and when it comes to you, a worrier is sure as hell one of them.”

Eli fights back a smile, lets his head fall back against the cushions. It’s… strangely endearing, Benny’s incessant worrying and fretting over his well-being. Benny’s not the first person to express worry over him, but people caring enough for him to actively worry over his safety is a concept Eli is still getting used to. Truth be told, he’s not sure he’ll ever really get used to it. Better to not, so he won’t have to readjust to a lack of support when Benny inevitably leaves.

And he will, Eli knows this. He’ll get sick of Eli and stop worrying and stop caring and stop visiting and Eli will leave Vegas and try to forget. Everyone else in his life has left, why should Benny be any different?

Not like Eli just expects him to up and leave, he doesn’t think that poorly of him. But it has to happen, Eli knows it has to happen, that he’ll get tired of Eli’s shit and his baggage and his shit personality and his shit everything and it’ll get to be too much and Benny won’t want him around anymore. It has to happen eventually, he’s sure of it.

But, some small part of him can’t help but wonder… what if Benny doesn’t leave? What if he doesn’t get sick of Eli and doesn’t stop worrying and doesn’t stop caring and doesn’t stop visiting? What if he stays?

Eli’s not sure which scares him more. Both prospects are terrifying for different reasons, reasons he can’t quite pin down.

Christ. All this thinking is making his head pound and hands shake.

He clumsily fishes around in his pockets for his cigarettes, pats down his jacket in an attempt to remember which goddamn pocket he’d stashed his pack in, but after a few moments of fumbling Benny stops him with a light touch and nods down at the cigarette in his outstretched hand.

Eli gives him a short grunt in thanks and jams the smoke between his lips, not bothering to search for his lighter as Benny leans over a moment later with his own and lights Eli’s cigarette for him. He leans close enough that Eli can smell the cheap cologne Benny wears, that strong citrus scent he’s used for as long as Eli’s known him. He used to hate the smell of it, but it’s not so bad now, not really. He doesn’t half mind it if he’s being honest.

Benny sighs as he leans back into his seat and flicks the smoldering butt of his cigarette onto the floor carelessly, runs his fingers through his hair. “You know,” he says, shifting around to get comfortable, “I still don’t get why you wouldn’t just go see that old doctor pal of yours and let him help you get your arm all patched up.”

Eli smirks around his cigarette and takes a lungful of smoke, slowly blows it out in wisps toward the ceiling. “Well, seeing how last time I saw him I had a gun to his head, I don’t exactly think I’d get a warm welcome.”

Benny doesn’t say anything to that, just raises his eyebrows and gives Eli a short nod, like his answer is satisfactory enough and no further explanation is needed.

Fine by him. Eli doesn’t much fancy the idea of rehashing the details of that mess anyways. Besides, there’s not much to say, not really. He got pissed off, pulled a gun on the guy, what else is there to tell?

Christ. Should have killed that uptight asshole when he had the chance. Gannon is a loose end, and he doesn’t like loose ends. Not like he expects Gannon to slit his throat in his sleep. The asshole wouldn’t make it two steps onto the Strip before he got shot down by one of the army of securitrons stationed around the place.

Still. He doesn’t much like the fact that Gannon is out there living his pathetic life, a walking example of Eli’s goddamned situational mercy.

Just might have to add a trip down to the Mormon Fort onto his to-do list. Invite himself in, give him a few quick rounds to the head, maybe stop by Mick and Ralph's on the way back for some fresh ammo. He could make a whole day of it, murdering an old… acquaintance, for lack of a better term.

Eli hums to himself, ashes his cigarette absentmindedly. He’ll think about it, file it away for consideration some other time. Right now, all Eli cares about is drinking this bottle of damn good whiskey and getting drunk off his ass. Might even take a nap. A few days have passed since he really got any sleep, might as well try to get a little bit today. Not like he’s got anything better to do.

He scratches idly at the bandages on the bridge of his nose, picks at the curling ends of the medical tape with a grimy fingernail. Christ, if anything, the worst part about breaking his nose is how much it itches for weeks afterwards.

Damn, this is, what, the third or fourth time he’s broken his nose in the past year? It had never really fully healed from the last time it broke, and getting it broken again in the Wrangler had to have been the one to finally fuck it up beyond repair. He hasn’t taken the bandages off since that night, so he hasn’t had a chance to take stock of the damage, but he can’t imagine it looks like anything more than a blackened pulp of flesh and mangled cartilage.

Oh well. He was never much of anything to look at anyways, not like a jacked up nose is going to make a difference.

Benny takes a quick swig of whiskey, and another, his eyes fluttering closed as the liquor goes down. “So,” he holds out the bottle for Eli to take, “how you feeling, baby? You been getting rest like I told you to?”

He takes the bottle and sets it on the couch cushion between his legs, gives Benny a half-hearted shrug. “I’m fine.” He takes a drink. “I rest when I can.”

Benny rolls his eyes at that, shakes his head. “No, see, that’s what you’d say to Swank. Come on, you can talk to me, baby. Ain’t got to lie to me.”

“Not lying,” he says, avoiding Benny’s prying eyes. “Besides, didn’t come here to spill my guts to you or some shit.”

He nods. “Fair enough.” A pause. “So, what did you come here for?”

Eli flinches, takes a long pull off his cigarette, ash crumbling and falling into his lap. “What does it matter?”

A shrug. “Guess it don’t matter much, not in the grand scheme of things,” Benny says. “I’m just…” He stops, waves a hand. “Just wondering.”

“Look, I’m… I’m here because I want to be, okay?” Eli finally says. He can’t bring himself to look at Benny when he says it, eyes trained on the ash gathering on his jeans. “Ain’t that what matters?”

Benny’s quiet for a moment, and Eli can feel Benny’s eyes on him, looking at him, looking for _something_ , so Eli finally turns to meet his gaze, and Benny gives him a small smile in return. “Yeah,” Benny says. “That’s what matters, baby.”


	26. You'll Never Know

The handle of Eli’s switchblade is heavy in his palm, a solid, comforting weight. He runs a thumb down the worn grip, over scuffs and scratches from apparent years of wear and tear. It’s served him well, this old switchblade of his, gotten him out of plenty of tight spots and shitty scraps.

There’s no way to tell how long he’s had the switchblade, but it’s always felt familiar to him, like the handle just fits perfectly in his grip.

He’s not one for sentimental nonsense—well, he’d never admit it out loud, at least—but fuck if he isn’t fond of this old knife.

Eli flicks the blade out in a quick, fluid motion, and sets to picking away at the thick layer of congealed grit and grime on the wooden surface of the bar counter, brushing away the peeled flakes of filth with the backs of his fingers. He wonders for a moment where he got the switchblade, whether it was a gift or stolen or a family heirloom passed down through the generations or just some garbage he picked up on the side of the road.

He lets himself briefly entertain the idea of a faceless parent kneeling down to his diminutive child height, ruffling his hair with a big palm and smiling as they pass the switchblade on to the next generation of Greys. Eli giving them a big toothy grin, promising to be careful, to only use it when mom or dad is around, to keep it in a safe place away from younger siblings.

It’s a nice thought. He can’t imagine his childhood was anywhere near as idyllic as his pointless daydreaming, but there’s no harm in a little bit of wishful thinking every now and then.

There’s so much shit caked onto the surface of this counter. Not like he cares. It gives him something to do, something to keep the hands busy with. Pick away at the grime and brush it away. Pick and brush, pick and brush, pick, pick, brush, brush.

He tries to imagine what his siblings would look like, if he ever had any. Would they be blond like him? All freckled and messy hair and stubby legs and small hands, just like him?

It’s hard to think about any other Greys running around out there in the big old world. He’s always seen himself as a singular being, just him, just one Grey. Just one Eli.

His thoughts drift back to the boy in his dream and his messy blond hair and dark freckles. He doesn’t like to think about the boy or the dream, but sometimes it’s all he can think about. Something about that kid pulls at some old memory past the fog in his mind that the bullets brought, like the memory is behind some locked door in his mind, pounding away at the walls, begging to be let out, but he just can’t find the key.

He’s not even sure if he _wants_ to find the key. Most everything that happened in his old life is still a mystery to him, and most days he’s content to keep it that way, but sometimes his curiosity is overwhelming.

Sometimes he wishes he could just freeze the dream, stop time and just grab the boy by his shoulders and ask him who he is. Christ, most times he can shove it to the side, but he just wants to _know_ who this kid is and what he has to do with Eli. He doesn’t give a damn about anything else, nothing else in his old life matters. All he wants to know is who this kid is.

“It’s your turn.”

Eli flinches and looks up from the counter, furrows his brow. “What?”

“It’s your turn,” Benny says, gesturing at Eli’s cards. “You going or you passing?”

“Oh,” Eli says, blinks a few times and swallows audibly, folds his knife back into its sheath and tucks it into his jacket pocket. “No, I’ll pass this turn.”

Benny lays his cards face down on the table and leans forward to rest his elbows on the bar, gives Eli a nod. “You okay? You been a little out of it today, baby.”

“Course I’m okay,” Eli plasters on a smirk, raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, baby,” says Benny. “You tell me, hey?”

Eli shakes his head, waves a hand in a vague, noncommittal gesture. “Nothing to talk about. I’m fine.”

Benny squints, like he’s looking for something, anything in Eli’s face that betrays him, but after a long moment, he gives Eli a tight smile and a short nod. “Okay. If you say so.” He rubs at the back of his neck, folds his arms. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Fuck, I thought you’d never ask,” Eli says, digging around in his pockets for his cigarettes. “Never should have agreed to play cards with you while sober.”

“Well, we’ll fix that right up, won’t we?” Benny smirks, waving the bartender over wordlessly. “Round of our best scotch for me and my best pal, yeah?”

The bartender nods, silently pours out the drinks, and Eli grabs one of the glasses as soon as it’s filled to the brim, downing the shot in one quick drink.

Benny chuckles, reaches out for his own drink, and takes a sip. “That’s the Eli I know, alright.”

Eli rolls his eyes, holds out the glass for the bartender to refill. “Yeah, yeah, save the jokes, Ben.”

“I ain’t making jokes,” Benny says. “Just that it ain’t Eli without a drink in his hand.”

Eli shrugs, grumbles under his breath as he lights up a cigarette and takes a long drag. “At least I’m consistent.”

“Yeah,” Benny laughs, “I’ll say, baby.” He lights a cigarette of his own and leans back in his chair, taps the end into the ashtray on the counter. “Anywho, enough of that. How’s the arm?” he asks, giving Eli a nod.

Eli raises his left arm, free of the sling he’d kept it in for well over a month, examines his palm, turns his hand over to look at the black and purple bruises spreading across his knuckles. “Still don’t have a lot feeling in this hand and I can’t bend my fingers, so I’m pretty sure it’s busted beyond belief, but, you know,” a shrug, “it is what it is.”

Benny hums, takes a sip of his drink, a drag off his cigarette. “Still, I know that arm’s given you a fair few problems, it’s a crying shame that it ain’t getting any better.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eli says. “I still got the other one and I can still shoot, so that’s all I care about. Don’t want to talk about my arm, anyways.”

“Fair enough. Ain’t exactly the most interesting topic of conversation, but I just want to see how you’re doing, you dig?”

Eli grunts. “It’s… fine. Just don’t want to talk about it.”

“There’s something I’ve been wondering, though. If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Oh, Christ,” Eli rolls his eyes. “Here we go.”

“No, no, it ain’t nothing bad,” Benny reassures. “I just… I been wondering is all.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Eli says dryly. “You going to tell me what it is you been wondering about?”

Benny’s quiet for a moment, and he downs the rest of his drink, stamps his cigarette out in the ashtray. “It’s just… the ink,” he says, and reaches out tentatively toward the tattoo on Eli’s right hand, brushes the back of his knuckles down the length of the tattoo, starting at the bottom of his thumb, down to his wrist. “Birds,” says Benny, and he pulls his hand away slowly, rests it on the counter between them. “They mean anything?”

A breath catches in Eli’s throat and he shrugs, clenches his hand into a loose fist. “Don’t know. I had it when I woke up, so I must have gotten it a long time ago. I mean…” A shrug. “I have an idea of why I might have got it, but who knows, really.”

“Oh?” Benny raises an eyebrow. “Something you feel comfortable sharing?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know.” He takes a long pull off his cigarette, taps the ash off the end with his index finger, brushes it onto the floor. “It’s stupid.”

“Nah, don’t say that, baby,” Benny says. “Ain’t nothing you’d say I’d ever think was stupid. You can tell me, whatever it is.”

Eli sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. I just have this dream a lot,” he says. “I’m like… on a beach or something. There’s always birds there and I always chase after them and shit. I guess I figured…” He trails off, shrugs half-heartedly. “I don’t know. It’s just a dream.”

“Is it a bad dream?” Benny asks.

“I don’t know. Sure ain’t a good one.”

Benny nods. “So, what? A nightmare?”

“Well, I mean, Christ,” Eli says, “it’s just a dream. Don’t need to be dramatic about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, guess not.” Benny’s quiet for a moment, slowly nurses his drink, lights up another cigarette. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, breaking the prolonged silence.

Eli raises an eyebrow. “Why? It’s just a damn dream.”

“Because,” Benny says. “You don’t sleep enough as is and if this dream is keeping you from getting some quality shut eye, then I care. Hell, I care no matter what, Eli. If it’s bugging you, you ain’t got to lie to me.”

Eli huffs and rubs at his temples, shuts his eyes tight. “I know, I know,” he says. “I’m… sorry. Never talked about this out loud. I’m not good at this.”

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” Benny says. “I’m sorry. You ain’t got to talk about it if you don’t want to. Benny didn’t mean to be pushy, baby. I’m sorry.”

Eli waves the apology off with a dismissive hand, shakes his head. “It’s fine. Just…” He sighs, rubs at the knot of muscle at the base of his neck. His gaze flicks down to Benny’s hand, still resting on the bar counter in the space between them. “You know,” he says after a moment, “I, uh, I been thinking about getting another tattoo.”

“That so?” Benny asks.

“Yeah. I, uh.” He pauses, clears his throat. “I was thinking I might get one right here,” he says, and he reaches out a finger to brush down the back of Benny’s left hand, from his knuckles to his wrist. “What do you think?” he asks, flicks his eyes up to meet Benny’s.

Benny holds his gaze, and he can almost see the beginnings of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. That smirk usually infuriates him, but Eli finds himself… charmed by it this time. Hell if he knows why, but it gives him that feeling in the pit of his stomach again, all heavy and undeniable.

Christ. He can’t believe he’s feeling this… whatever it is regularly enough that he can recognize when he’s feeling it. It’s not… bad, whatever this feeling is, but it’s confusing and unsettling and he tries not to think about it too much whenever he feels it, which is increasingly often.

Is this… friendship? It seems the most likely. I mean, really, what else could it be? Eli hasn’t had a friend in who knows how long, so he’s probably just experiencing… friendly affection. That’s it. Friendly affection.

Shit. He doesn’t want to think about this. Who cares whatever this feeling is? It doesn’t matter and there’s no point trying to think about it so much. It’s not like Benny is out here analyzing every little thing he feels. For fuck’s sake, there’s nothing to analyze. It’s just normal ass friendship, that’s all.

Benny finishes off his drink and sighs contentedly, gives Eli a nod. “Can I see your hand, baby?”

Eli raises his right hand, furrows his brow. “Why?”

“No, no,” Benny laughs, “your other hand. I just want to see something.”

Eli obliges and offers his left hand, not bothering to question his intentions, and Benny holds Eli’s wrist with a light touch, brushes his fingertips down the back of Eli’s left hand. “Can you feel that?”

He swallows, nods. “Just barely.”

“Well, it’s something, hey?” Benny says. “Maybe this old hand ain’t a goner yet.”

Eli wets his lips, pulls his hand free of Benny’s loose grasp. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The silence that settles between them is thick, the only sounds around them the clinking of glasses and buzz of laughter from nearby diners and the usual ambient casino noises he’s come to know, the chirps and chimes of slot machines and the cheers from lucky gamblers. It used to drive him up the wall, the constant, unavoidable noise of this place, but he’s learned to block it out.

Benny clears his throat after a long moment, scratches at his chin. “So. Another round of drinks?”

“God, yes,” Eli says. “I’m dying over here.”

Benny smiles. “Another round, coming right up.”


	27. Come Fly With Me

“Baby, you ever going to let me make good on my promise and take you out on a real date?” Benny asks, mild as milk.

Eli chokes on his cigarette smoke, doubling over as he succumbs to a coughing fit, waving away Benny’s concern impatiently, holding up an index finger to silently ask for a moment to compose himself.

Here he is, pushing thirty and coughing up his lungs like some goddamn kid clumsily taking his first lungful of smoke.

The coughing fit passes after a minute or so and Eli takes a moment to get his breath back before pushing himself upright, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair. “Lord,” he says, voice hoarse, flicking his cigarette onto the dingy thirteenth floor carpet, “you can’t just say something like that out of nowhere, Benny.”

“What, should I have warned you beforehand that I was about to ask you on a date?” Benny asks, eyebrows raised.

Eli huffs, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Look, it’s a real funny joke, Ben, but you can cut the shit.”

“What shit? There’s no shit, baby,” Benny says. “This here, this is the real deal, all the way.”

Eli blinks a few times, works his jaw. “You’re serious right now?”

“Course I am,” Benny says, hand to his chest in that exaggerated affronted act he always pulls. “That so hard to believe?”

“Of course it is,” Eli shoots back. “I mean, what even brought this on? That was… ages ago, Benny.”

“I know, baby, I know, but,” he shrugs vaguely, “I like to keep my promises, you dig?”

“Oh, so that’s what this is? You want me to just… go on a pity date with you or something to clear your conscience?” He pulls his lip up in a sneer, spits on the ground. “Screw you.”

“It ain’t like that, baby. Look, I’m sorry.” He holds his palms up, a sheepish smile on his lips. “Let me explain a little better, hey?”

Eli sighs, clenches a fist, unclenches slowly. “Yeah. Yeah... sorry.” A shrug. “Go on.”

“I just… you know, you ain’t seen much of Vegas, baby,” says Benny, “and you’ve been here a good stretch. I just thought it might be nice to go out, just the two of us, and I could show you some of the sights, you dig? Maybe have a nice meal, a good drink, the usual, but all my treat.” He wrings his hands, shoves them in his pocket, rocks back on his heels. “So?” He raises his shoulders. “What do you say?”

This is… not the turn he pictured today taking. What does he even say? The idea of a date with Benny doesn’t sound all that terrible. They’ve been alone together plenty of times, they hang out as much as their free time allows them… It’s not like this is some novel thing. They’d just be spending time together, same as they always do.

Just the fact that he’s even thinking about this, actually going on a date with Benny, is just bizarre. Why is Benny even still thinking about this? Their one night stand is ancient history, dust in the wind. Sure, they’re friends now, but that doesn’t mean he has to keep a promise he made while riding his post-fuck high.

He never figured Benny for the kind of emotional sap to do something like this, try to make good on a year and a half old promise made after a half-decent lay. Either he's not lying and he really does like to keep good on promises and he’s just doing this to clear his debts or…

Fuck no. He stops that train of thought before it leaves the station, slams on the brakes, pack it up fellas, nothing to see here, go about your business. Nope. Hell fucking no, goodbye, goodnight, and adiós.

Besides, it’s not like there’s any reason to believe Benny feels like… _that_ about him. He’s good at picking up when people are trying to be smooth on him, when they’re laying it on thick and trying to play up their clumsy moves. He knows all about that, every tired out line and tired out pickup. Benny doesn’t… he’s not like that. They’re pals, friends, whatever they are, but there’s no way Benny would ever think about someone like Eli like _that_.

God. He told himself he wasn’t going to think about this. He’s just looking too much into this, reading between the lines for a deeper meaning that just plain isn’t there.

Benny would lose it if he knew what Eli was thinking about right now. He’d laugh and laugh and wipe the tears from his eyes and place a hand on Eli’s shoulder and spout some spiel about how Eli’s good in the sack, but just ain’t good for something more permanent, and he’s sorry, baby, really, but it just isn't going to work.

And it’s fine. This entire hypothetical situation rests on two assumptions: one, that Benny has feelings for Eli—which he doesn’t—and two, that Eli has feelings for Benny—which he sure as _hell_ doesn’t—so this whole thing is moot anyways.

Goddamn, maybe he needs to take another couple of bullets to the head. He’s obviously off his rocker if he’s thinking about something like this, cooking up imaginary scenarios in which Benny is madly in love with him or something. It’s positively absurd is what it is, downright pathetic and ridiculous and laughable as all hell. Maybe some more lead to the head will shake things back into place and get everything back in working order.

Well. As close to working order as Eli can get.

There’s still the matter of the larger issue at hand. This… date obviously isn’t anything big. There’s no harm in agreeing to it, and it doesn’t sound that bad, anyways. Dinner and drinks with Benny, a walk out on the Strip… he’s had worse evenings with much worse company. Besides, not like he’s really got much of anything better to do.

Eli rubs at his temples, shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Look, I mean, it doesn’t sound… horrible,” Eli says. “But, ain’t that just the same as hanging out? We do that all the time.”

“Well, yeah,” Benny says. “I mean, it sort of is, yeah? But it’s… different, you dig?”

Eli raises an eyebrow. “Different,” he repeats, folding his arms across his chest.

“Yeah, it’s like the same as hanging out,” Benny explains, “except I tell you that you look nice and I walk you home afterwards and give you a kiss.”

“Well, you can forget about the kiss,” Eli says, chuckling nervously, “because that ain’t happening.”

Benny smirks. “That’s fair, baby, that’s fair.” The smirk falls off his face and he rubs at the back of his neck, clears his throat. “Look, Eli, this ain’t… you don’t got to say yes, you know that, right? I ain’t trying to trick you into doing something you don’t want to do, you know?” He scratches at his forehead, pulls at the collar of his shirt. “I, uh… I l—“ He stops himself. “I really dig you, hey? I just thought I’d treat you to a night out on the town.” He shrugs. “If you want it, I mean.”

“I mean…” He shrugs. “It’s just hanging out, yeah?”

“Course, baby, it don’t got to be nothing special,” Benny says. “Hell, we don’t even have to call it a date if that would suit you better, you dig? It can just be a… I don’t know.” He waggles his fingers, searching for the word he’s looking for. “A meeting? Shit, no, that sounds too business-like and you know Benny ain’t about that.” He furrows his brows, purses his lips. “An appointment? That don’t sound much better, do it?”

“Benny, for Christ’s sake,” Eli interrupts, shaking his head. “You don’t got to…” A sigh. “It’s fine. Calling it a date, I mean.”

Benny stops, opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he’s trying to speak, but can’t find the words for what he wants to say. “Yeah?” he finally manages, and Eli can’t help but catch the hopefulness in his tone. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Eli says, gives him a shrug. “I mean, Jesus,” Eli says, “can’t really believe I’m saying this but... yeah.” He nods. “It’s a date.”

“Oh,” Benny says. “Oh, wow.” He shakes his head, clears his throat. “As much as it shames me to say it, baby, I’m at a bit of a loss for words. I, uh.” He shrugs. “Thought for sure you’d say no.”

Eli chuckles. “Yeah, thought I’d say no, too.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Eli frowns, furrows his brow. “You want me to change my answer?”

“No, no, course not,” Benny says. “I guess I just thought…” He shrugs, waves a dismissive hand. “It don’t matter what I thought. I’m happy you said yes.” A grin pulls at his mouth, one of those rare, genuine smiles from him. “We’re going to have a grand old time, baby, just you see.”

Eli gives him a small smile in return, rubs at the back of his neck. He doesn't know if a date means to Benny what it means to him, but Benny seems excited and his smile makes Eli smile and he wants Benny to smile like that more and he wants to reach out and touch him on his arm, his shoulder, his cheek, anything.

Eli scratches at his jaw, slides his hands in his pockets. “Look, I don’t…” He stops, shrugs. “This. It’s not… something I do. Or have done. Ever. Not that I can remember, anyways.”

“It ain’t no big thing, baby, it’s fine. Ain’t nothing you got to know going in. It’s just us hitting the town, you and me,” Benny says. “I don’t got an agenda here or nothing, you know that right? I ain’t trying to get nothing out of this and I ain’t asking you to do nothing that you don’t want to do. You know that, yeah?”

Eli nods. “Yeah, course. Like I said, I’m just…” A shrug. “Just out of my depth here.”

“It’s alright, Eli. Ain’t nothing to be scared of.”

Eli shakes his head. "I ain't fucking scared.”

It’s an easy enough lie. Not the biggest or most severe lie he’s ever told, but he’s glad his hands are in his pockets so Benny can’t see them shake. Truth is, he’s  _terrified_. Terrified of what this means, what it’s going to change, what it won’t change, what will happen if it goes wrong, what will happen if it goes _right_.

All the things he’s done, all the things he’s seen, and _this_ is the thing that scares him the most.

He lights up another cigarette, closes his eyes as he takes a deep drag. The smoke helps to calm his nerves, enough that he reaches up to pull his sunglasses from his face and clears his throat. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have... you know.” He gestures vaguely. “Snapped at you.”

“Hey,” Benny says, raises a hand to squeeze Eli’s shoulder. “Ain’t nothing to apologize for. It’s okay to be scared, yeah? And I ain’t saying you are or you got to be, but it’s okay if you are. You dig? It’s okay, baby.”

Eli ashes his cigarette, takes another long drag. “Are _you_ scared?” he asks, smoke escaping his lips in thin clouds.

“Yeah," Benny says. "I’m scared as hell, baby.”

Eli nods, purses his lips. “I, uh…” He stops and wets his lips, shrugs, flicks his cigarette to the floor.

Benny’s hair is longer than Eli’s ever seen, long enough that the ends turn up and hug the shell of his ear, soft ringlets curling at his neck. He keeps his eyes trained on Benny’s neck as he reaches a hand up slowly and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears, but he doesn’t falter, bringing his fingers up to run through his soft curls, his knuckles brushing Benny’s neck.

He remembers the first time they met, how he’d done something similar, skimmed his fingers at Benny’s neck in an attempt to get him alone, and the parallels don’t escape him.

Eli twists a curl around his finger tip, finally bringing his gaze up to meet Benny’s. “You need a haircut,” he says, voice raspy.

Benny smiles, one of those small charming smiles he only uses around Eli, and he feels something like a swell of pride at knowing that Benny only smiles like that around him.

It’s good, Benny, the way Benny makes him feel, and as scary as it is, as this whole goddamn thing is, Eli finds that he… likes it. He likes these moments and he likes being the only person Benny acts genuine around and he likes that Benny has a special smile just for him and he likes that he knows Benny well enough to recognize that smile.

“Tomorrow night work for you?” Benny asks softly, looking down at Eli through half-lidded eyes.

Eli nods, fingers still running gently through Benny’s hair. “Yeah,” he says. “That works.”

He wonders if maybe he should stop, pull his hand back, get the hell out of here, but he doesn’t, doesn’t want to. All he can think is how soft Benny’s hair is and how soothing it is, running his fingers through over and over, and Benny doesn’t seem to mind and he’s certainly not making any move to stop him, so he doesn’t.

“I’m free tonight, too,” Eli says. “Just…” A shrug. “You know. We could do it tonight instead of waiting until tomorrow.”

Benny smiles. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Eli returns his smile with one of his own. “Me too.”


	28. The Way You Look Tonight

Eli sighs as he wipes the grime and condensation from the bathroom mirror with the flat of his hand, brushes the gunk off on the front of his pants. When was the last time he even looked in a mirror? He finds that he can’t remember, but, then again, he has trouble remembering things he did a few days ago, so maybe that doesn’t count for too much.

He grips the sides of the sink and braces his arms as he leans forward, turns his face to the left, to the right, taking a good look at himself for the first time in who knows how long. Everything seems to be about how he remembers it, dark purple circles under each eye, crooked nose swollen and bruised, a whole host of scars and bruises covering nearly every available inch of his skin, thick stubble growing in on his chin and cheeks. Just shaved yesterday and he already needs to shave again.

…Or was it the day before yesterday? Shit. Doesn’t matter and he can’t be assed to try to remember.

Thoroughly fucked up face aside, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen himself look so… clean, all scrubbed and polished up. He’s so used to living with a thick layer of sand and sweat clinging to him at all times, so seeing himself like this feels so bare, like he’s missing an essential part of himself.

He runs a hand through his hair, brushes it back and out of his eyes, huffing as his fringe falls back over his forehead. His hair is actually soft now that it’s been washed and thoroughly scrubbed, and his hands don’t catch in weeks worth of muck and grease when he runs his fingers through it.

Jesus, he looks so… young. He feels younger, too, like all that grit and grime was just seeping into his bones and aging him from the outside in. It's wild, what one shower will do.

Eli takes a deep breath and exhales as he pushes himself upright, rolls his shoulders to adjust his jacket—borrowed from Swank, like the rest of this fancy getup—and pulls at his tie to loosen the knot.

“Almost wouldn’t recognize you if I didn’t know you better.”

Eli turns and purses his lips, brows furrowed. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?” He shakes his head. “Fuck. This was a mistake, I need to—“

“Hey, hey now,” Swank stops him with a hand on his arm. “Don’t go freaking out on me, alright? You look great.”

Eli breathes heavily, nostrils flared. “Yeah?” he asks after a moment, and his voice cracks on the word and he hates himself for it, but Swank seems to take mercy on him and if he notices it, he doesn’t comment on it.

Instead, Swank just smiles, adjusts Eli’s lapels and smooths out the wrinkles on the front of his dress shirt, brushes some dust off the shoulder of his coat. “You’re a vision, Eli. Handsome guy like you?” Swank shakes his head. “Got nothing to worry about.”

Eli gives him a thin smile. “Right.” He heaves a sigh, ruffles his hair again, frowns at his reflection. “Well. Guess I’m going.”

“You’ll be fine,” Swank says as he fixes Eli’s hair, gives his cheek a few affectionate pats, and smiles reassuringly. “Go on, get, have fun.”

Eli gives him a half-hearted wave as he leaves the bathroom and walks into the main room of the presidential suite and takes the elevator down to the first floor. Part of him feels like maybe this was a mistake, acting on impulse and setting this date up for the same day. Should have given himself a few days in case he changed his mind and needed to skip town to avoid this altogether.

But another, louder part of him is… excited? Anxious?

Whatever it is, he doesn’t think it’s a bad feeling, not really, and it doesn’t upset him, so he doesn’t put too much thought into it.

The casino floor is busy as ever as he steps out of the elevator, the evening rush of tourists out in full force for a night full of gambling and booze. Business as usual around here.

Benny is on the far side of the room, near the lobby, smoking away at a cigarette. He catches Eli’s eye from across the room and beams, gives Eli a wave.

He’s dressed up for this, too, swapped the checkered coat out for a dark blue one, gray slacks for black, necktie for bowtie. He looks good. Great, even. Blue is a nice color on him. Should make a note to tell him that at some point.

Benny flicks his cigarette to the floor carelessly and meets Eli halfway, stopping just in front of him, hands in pockets. “Hello,” he drawls, whistles loudly. “You look out of this world, baby. Goddamn.”

Eli shrugs, lights up a cigarette. “You don’t look… you know.” He takes a long drag, exhales deeply. “Don’t look too bad yourself.”

“You think?” Benny asks, brushes the back of a hand down his lapels.

“Yeah,” Eli says. “I mean, don’t let it go to your head,” he backpedals, “but, you know. I’ve seen worse.”

Benny laughs at that. “Hey, I’ll take it. It’s high praise from you.”

Eli doesn’t react at first, just takes another pull off his cigarette, smoke trailing from his lips as he holds Benny’s gaze. After a long moment, he takes a step forward to stand right in Benny’s space and nods up at him, points at his hair. “You got a cut.”

“Oh,” Benny says, runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, course I did. You was right, I needed a cut bad, baby.”

Eli purses his lips, rolls his cigarette back and forth between his index finger and his thumb. “Looks nice.”

“Oh, now you’re just flattering me,” Benny says, voice soft and smooth, like velvet on Eli’s ears. Benny raises an eyebrow and smirks smugly, reaches up to adjust Eli’s tie and pat down his collar.

Eli shivers at the contact, swallows past the sudden dry patch in his throat. “So,” he says. “Should we…?”

“Of course. Don’t want to keep a pretty man waiting, do I?” he asks with a wink, and takes a step back, holds out an arm to gesture toward the door. “Dinner awaits, baby.”

* * *

The restaurant Benny chose is nice, a quaint little joint tucked back in the northwestern end of the Strip. A bright sign in the window reads ”Mama’s”, neon bulbs bathing the street in harsh red light. It looks nice enough, not as run down as some of the other places around. Not like it really matters much to Eli. They could have gone to eat in a dumpster for all he cares, but he knows how fussy Benny is about these sorts of things, so this place must have his stamp of approval.

“It’s a small place, yeah?” Benny says. “Small enough that you’ll miss it if you ain’t careful.”

Eli shrugs. “Small is good. Small is fine.”

“Oh, yeah?” Benny asks, waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Size don’t matter to you, huh?”

“God, really, Benny?” Eli asks, rolling his eyes, but there’s no real malice or sharpness to his tone.

The owners greet them as soon as they walk through the door, two plump older women with bright eyes and bright smiles. “Please, please, come in boys,” the shorter woman says, and she grabs Eli’s hand and pulls him close to kiss his cheeks. Eli frowns, brows furrowed, and he sends Benny a glare over his shoulder, but doesn’t vocally protest the woman’s affections.

“Oh, Benny boy,” the short woman says as she lets go of Eli, “let me take a look at you.” She holds him by the arms and looks him up and down, pinches his chin with wrinkled, weathered fingers. “You haven’t aged a day since I last saw you, young man.”

Benny laughs, pats her hand fondly. “And I can say the same for you, now can’t I?”

The woman gasps and purses her lips, shakes her head. “Still charming as ever, you devil, you,” she says. “But, oh? Where are my manners? I’m Margaret, and this,” she gestures to the woman next to her, “is my wife, Constance.”

Constance smiles, gives them an enthusiastic wave. “Great to see you fellas,” she says, and gives them the same greeting Margaret had, firm handshakes and kisses to both cheeks. “Come, let’s get you boys set up with the best seat in the house,” says Constance, and she waves for them to follow her to a spacious booth on the far left wall, ushers them into their seats. “You boys don’t worry about a thing,” Constance says. “We’ll make sure you boys get fed well and proper.”

“I don’t doubt you for a second,” Benny says with a smile.

Margaret and Constance give them each wide grins and head to the kitchen, through the doors at the back of the dining room, laughing and whispering to each other all the way. Eli watches them leave and turns back to Benny when they’re gone, eyebrow quirked. “Know them well?”

“Oh, we go a long way back,” Benny says, waving a hand dismissively. “We’re old pals, Marge and I.”

Eli hums, purses his lips. “Figured as much.” He fidgets in his seat, crosses his arm, uncrosses them. There’s only a few other diners here tonight, he notices as he takes in the surroundings, two older men with dusty gray hair and suits to match, and a young woman by herself at a table, absentmindedly pushing what looks like cold brahmin steak around her plate with her fork. The area in the middle of the room is free of tables and chairs, a battered old radio set on a wooden bar stool, the sounds of Mister New Vegas’ dulcet tones crackling softly.

Not a bad place. Quiet, not too many people, no crowds. Doesn’t seem like the sort of place Benny would really frequent—not well enough to be so acquainted with the owners, anyways—but he’s been wrong about Benny before, so he imagines it’s just as likely he’s wrong about this.

“Hey, baby,” Benny says, breaking the silence. “Look, I just want to say that you look _amazing_. And I mean really goddamn amazing. I just…” He shrugs. “Words ain’t my strong suit. I just ain’t never seen you out of that old jacket of yours, you know?”

“Yes, you have,” Eli says, without missing a beat.

Benny raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turning up in that smug smirk of his. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess you’re right.”

* * *

Eli doesn’t have the most discerning of tastes, but he thinks the food here is good. It’s hot and freshly made, so that alone immediately makes it better than everything he’s survived off for the past who knows how long.

Not like he cares much. Food is food in his eyes, but maybe it’s not so bad to eat something that _isn’t_ stale and rubbery and overcooked and _doesn’t_ taste like shoe leather every once in a while.

Benny is quiet on his side of the table, comfortably reclined in his seat as he sips away at his whiskey. He’s finished his meal already, well before Eli had put so much as a dent in his, but he doesn’t seem to mind waiting for Eli to finish, apparently content to drink in silence and let Eli eat.

As Eli shovels another forkful of food into his mouth, Benny leans forward and sets his glass down on the table, pushes himself out of his seat to get up and cross the room to turn the volume on the radio up. He walks back to their booth, but doesn’t sit back down. Instead, he stops just in front of Eli and offers a hand. “Up for a dance, baby?”

Eli freezes, mouth full of half-chewed potato, fork hovering halfway from his plate to his mouth. He feels like he should say something sweet or… fuck, charming? Who knows how this is supposed to work.

Not him, that’s for sure, as he wracks his brain and the only thing he can think to say is, “What?”

Benny just smiles, all warm and gentle and soft eyes. “Dance,” he repeats. “With me.”

Eli finally swallows his food down and clears his throat, gives Benny a shrug. “Don’t know how.”

“So I’ll teach you,” Benny says. “Come on, hey? One dance?”

Christ. Part of him really wants to say no. It’s not too late to cut this short and skip town and never come back. Just stop by the Tops, grab his bag, and off he goes. It would be easy, so, so easy, and definitely easier than dancing.

That part of him isn’t too loud, though. The louder part of him, the more vocal part of him that’s screaming and shouting in his brain, is telling him to say yes, just take his hand and don’t ask questions and just say yes, for fuck’s sake, _say yes_.

So, he does. “Okay,” Eli whispers, and he puts his hand in Benny’s and lets Benny lead him to the middle of the room.

“Alright,” Benny says in his ear, “put this hand here,” and he moves Eli’s right hand to rest on his shoulder, keeps his hold on Eli’s left hand as he rests his palm on Eli’s hip. “This okay?” he asks as they start to sway slowly, and he’s so close Eli can feel how warm he is and he can smell his cologne and he can see the faint stubble on his chin.

Eli remembers the last time he was this close to Benny, and he doesn’t have to think too hard to remember the way Benny’s face had looked, his eyes screwed shut, mouth hanging open. He can remember how the noises he made sounded, too, and he tries to ignore the hot, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, but being this close to Benny is making him think about things he hasn’t willingly thought about in a long time.

“Yeah,” Eli says finally, gives him a nod. “This is… good.”

Benny smiles. “See? It ain’t so bad, not once you give it a chance, hey?”

Eli lets himself return the smile with a small one of his own. “Guess not,” he says, looks down at his shuffling feet, back up at Benny. “Not exactly built for this, but, you know,” he shrugs a shoulder. “It ain’t half bad.”

“Hey,” Benny squeezes Eli’s waist lightly, “you’re doing great, baby. You’ve got a natural talent.”

Eli scoffs, rolls his eyes. “Now _you’re_ flattering _me_.”

“Nah,” Benny drawls. “It ain’t flattery when I’m telling the truth, baby.”

Eli gives him a chuckle, raises an eyebrow. “Laying it on thick tonight, yeah?”

“Believe me, baby, I got no special agenda or nothing,” Benny says. “Just being honest with you. You deserve honesty, Eli.”

The way Benny says that gives Eli pause, like there’s some weight to it, some deeper meaning he’s supposed to intuit from that, but he doesn’t know, hell, he doesn’t even know if there really is anything more to it than that. He always ends up thinking himself in circles when it comes to Benny, always over analyzing and second guessing. It’s absurd, how much this man gets to his head and makes him think about things he never thought he’d think about with Benny.

These… feelings he has for Benny. Whatever they are. They feel familiar in some way, like maybe he’s felt something similar for some other man before, but Eli doesn’t think he’s ever felt exactly like _this_. He doesn’t even know what _this_ is, but it’s heavy and overwhelming and it’s all he can think about anymore, when he’s around Benny, when he’s away from him. He can’t escape it, no matter what he does, and he apparently can’t ignore it, either.

Christ. This man is going to be the death of him one day, but for right now, Eli clings to him, tightens his grip on Benny’s hand, gives it a squeeze. It’s nice and it feels good and right now, it’s enough for him.


	29. Why Do Fools Fall In Love

“Damn, I don’t know about you, baby, but I could go for something to eat right about now.”

Eli raises an eyebrow as he turns to look at Benny, cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth. “You joking? We just ate like an hour ago.”

“What?” Benny asks, smiling creeping onto his face as he raises his shoulders. “All that dancing worked up an appetite, baby. Could go for a midnight snack right about now, you dig?”

Eli purses his lips and rolls his eyes fondly as he takes a drag off his cigarette and points at Benny, smoke leaving a trail through the cold night air. “Ain’t you ever heard? Not good to eat right before bed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Benny says, waving a dismissive hand. “What about you? I mean, you want to talk about bad habits? You’re a regular smokestack, always puffing away like that.”

“Oh, man, you really going to go there?” Eli laughs. “We both know you ain’t got room to talk, Ben.”

Benny laughs and slings an arm around Eli’s shoulder, gives him a light squeeze. “Alright, alright, fair enough, baby. Guess we both got some bad habits, huh?”

Eli scoffs, rolls his eyes. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with that,” Benny shrugs. “We all got our vices, baby.”

Eli hums. “Guess so.” He picks the hot ash off the end of his cigarette with his fingers and flicks it into the ground, wipes his hands on his slacks. “I, uh,” he starts, keeping his gaze locked on his sloppily polished shoes. “I haven’t shot up in a while," he says. "You know. Chems.”

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Benny turns to look at him, his face schooled into a neutral expression. “That so?”

Eli nods. “No Med-X, no Psycho, no Jet.” He tosses his cigarette and looks over at Benny, gives him a half-hearted shrug. “No nothing. Not for a while now.”

Benny raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“That so hard to believe?” Eli asks, a touch defensively.

“Hey, no,” Benny says, and he stops, resting his hands on Eli’s shoulders as he moves to stand in front of him. “Not at all, baby. I’m so—“

Eli holds up a hand to cut him off. “Look, I don’t want a medal or a pat on the back. Don’t make a big deal out of this, okay?” He shrugs, purses his lips. “You seemed like you…” Care? That can’t be right, but it’s the first word that comes to mind. “I don’t know. Just wanted to tell you,” he finally says.

Benny nods. “Okay. I get it, yeah? I just want you to know,” he says, and his voice is so soft and he’s so close and his hands on his shoulders are grounding and comforting and if he just keeps his eyes on Benny’s, maybe the rest of this godawful city will melt away. “Ain’t easy kicking a habit like that,” he says. A pause, then, “I’d know. We don’t got to talk about it no more, I just wanted you to know. I get it.”

“I mean, I haven’t kicked it, not really,” Eli says. “But, you know…” A shrug. “Trying to, anyways.”

Benny smiles, soft and sweet. “I’m proud of you, baby.”

“Oh. I…” Eli bites his lip, rubs at the back of his neck. “Not sure what to say.”

“You ain’t got to say nothing. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, baby. Any time, whatever you need.”

“Anything I need, hey?” Eli squints, purses his lips. “So, say I need a million caps.”

Benny laughs, letting his hands fall from Eli’s shoulders, giving him a playful poke in the chest. “Alright, wise guy. What do you say we head back home?”

Home. Strange word, that. Not something Eli’s ever connected with and certainly not something he ever thought he _would_ connect with. But, maybe it’s okay to have a place to call home. Even if that home is a smelly, shitty old casino in a smelly, shitty old city. There are worse places with worse people. It’s not perfect, but… it’s enough.

Benny gives him a smile and slides his hands in his pockets, bumps Eli’s shoulder with his. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Yeah. It’s enough.

* * *

Eli can hear Rex’s excited barks before the elevator even makes it to the presidential, and sure enough, he’s already waiting there as soon as the elevator stops and the doors slide open, tail wagging furiously, and he pounces at Eli before he can even take more than one step out of the car, jumping up to put his paws on Eli’s shoulders and lick every inch of his face.

“Hey, boy,” Eli says, scratching behind Rex’s ears. “I missed you, too.”

Benny gives Rex a few pats as he brushes past and makes his way into the suite, hands in his pockets as he looks around the room with a raised eyebrow. “Baby, you ever clean up around here?” he asks. “It’s a goddamn wreck in here. You know we got cleaning staff, right?”

“Hey, shut up, will you?” Eli says. “Trying to say hi to my dog here.”

Benny laughs at that, loud and bright, and the sound makes his heart skip a goddamn beat. “Fair enough, baby, fair enough.” Eli watches him poke a pile of guns and spent shells and snack cake wrappers with the toe of his shoe. “Still, just saying this place could use a good scrubbing is all.”

Eli sighs, gives Rex a final pat, and grabs his paws to help him back down to all fours, shoving his hands in his pockets as he makes his way into the room after Benny. “So, that why you followed me up here? Come to tell me to do my chores or…?”

“Hey, I didn’t come here looking for nothing,” Benny says. “Nothing other than to say that I had a great time and to wish you goodnight, baby.”

Eli stops a few feet shy of Benny, chews at his bottom lip with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah? You mean it?”

“Course I do,” says Benny. “That was the best time I’ve had in ages, Eli.”

Eli nods, the faint twist of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “It was pretty good, wasn’t it?”

“Like I said,” Benny smiles, that familiar, soft smile Eli’s so fond of. “The best,” he whispers, and reaches out to rest a hand on Eli’s arm, give it a light squeeze.

Eli wants to do the same, reach out and touch him, but he swallows past the dry lump in his throat and keeps his hands still.

“Anywho,” Benny says, clears his throat. “I’m sure you’re tired. I’ll let you get some rest.”

“Oh,” Eli says, “I mean. Yeah, that’s… Okay. Yeah.”

Benny smirks, gives Eli’s arm a final squeeze before pulling his hand back, sliding them into his pockets. “Try to catch some Z’s, baby,” he says with a wink and turns to leave.

Eli watches him go, hands still hanging motionless at his sides, and Benny almost makes it to the elevator before Eli gathers his nerve and calls out, “Hey. Wait.”

Benny stops in his tracks before the words finish leaving his mouth, and he turns slowly, eyebrow quirked. “What’s up, baby?”

“I was just wondering if…” He trails off, shrugs. “Want to stay for a drink or two?”

Eli watches as Benny schools his face into something more neutral, lowers his brow, mouth a firm line. “You offering?”

“That’s why I asked, yeah.”

Benny doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence that follows is almost worse than an outright refusal, like he’s trying to find the easiest way to say no to him, to turn him down. He can’t remember ever being this nervous about asking someone to stay for drinks, and Benny sure as hell isn’t making this any easier for him.

He feels a thousand miles away over there by the elevator, but neither of them move to close the gap between them.

“I need you to say it,” Benny finally says, breaking the silence with that soft voice of his.

Eli raises an eyebrow. “Say what?”

“That you want me here,” Benny says. “That you want me to stay.”

“I do,” Eli blurts. “Want you to stay.” He takes a few experimental steps forward, closing the gap between them by a few feet. “I want you to stay.”

He’s quiet again, expression blank, and Eli is sure he’s going to say no and leave and that will be that, but instead he smiles, crosses the room to stand just in front of Eli, just outside of his personal space. “Well,” Benny says, “I’ll get us those drinks.”

Eli blinks, wets his lips. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Good.”

Jesus Christ. He’s certain he’s making an absolute fool of himself, tripping over his words and ham-fistedly trying to express his wants, and he’ll probably regret all of this tomorrow, but he decides to leave those problems to future Eli and heads to the couch, dropping into the cushions with a sigh.

Benny follows a few moments later, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in hand, and sinks onto the seat next to Eli. He pours a generous amount into each glass and smiles, holding one out for Eli to take. “I propose a toast, baby.”

Eli squints and arches a brow, but takes the offered glass. “To what, exactly?”

“To good friends,” Benny says, smiling warmly as he raises his glass. “To us.”

Us. _Us_. The word circles in his head, around and around until it stops sounding like a word. Strange word, that. Another concept he never thought he’d connect to or even understand, but he thinks that maybe he gets it now. Like home. He gets it.

Eli hums, clinks his glass with Benny’s and downs his shot in one quick drink, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Us. Maybe he’s thinking about this too much, but ‘us’ implies a _something_ between them, something tangible enough that they can call this thing they have, the two of them, an ‘ _us_ ’.

He clenches a fist, digs his finger nails into his palm to give his mind something to focus on. Fuck. He can’t go down that line of thought, not tonight, not _now_ , not when Benny’s so close, close enough that their thighs are just a fraction of an inch apart, his hand on the back of the sofa just barely brushing the base of Eli’s neck. God, he’s so close, and when he looks down at Benny’s lips, he can’t tell if the warmth in the pit of his stomach is from the whiskey or something else and it’s  _killing_ him.

They’re friends. Just like Benny said. Friends. Thinking about nonsense like this isn’t going to help matters.

He wants… God. He knows what he wants and he hates that he wants it, hates himself for letting whatever this is that he feels for Benny get this far. Feelings are a weakness, something for others to exploit and turn against people, and he prides himself on not having any weaknesses, but this… Fuck.

“Hey,” Benny murmurs, and Eli flinches at the sound, which only makes Benny scoot closer, his hand moving from the couch to Eli’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “What’s wrong, Eli?”

“Nothing,” Eli says quickly, shaking his head. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“Baby, you ain’t got nothing to be sorry for,” he says, giving Eli’s shoulder another squeeze, but he stops, pulls his hand back, lets it hover in the space between them. “I’m sorry, baby. I shouldn’t be so—“

“No,” Eli stops him, pulls Benny’s hand back onto his shoulder, keeps his fingers wrapped around Benny’s wrist. “It’s okay.”

Benny’s eyebrows jump, and he doesn’t say anything for a few long moments, long enough that Eli starts to think that maybe he’s gone too far here, but then Benny’s eyes soften and a smile pulls at his mouth. “Hey,” he says, voice soft, “what are you thinking about, baby?”

Eli swallows, darts out his tongue to wet his lips, holding Benny’s gaze. “I really want to kiss you right now.” The words fall out of his mouth before he can even fully process them, and the silence that follows is deafening, ringing in his ears and making his head spin.

Benny slowly works his thumb back and forth over the muscle of his shoulder, gently squeezing and massaging at the tense knot. “Yeah?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Eli nods. “Yeah,” he says.

“Funny,” says Benny, “because I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Eli feels his mouth go dry, his heart begin to race. Christ, this is really happening. “That right?” he manages, but his voice is so hoarse the words sound strangled.

“Yeah.”

Eli wets his lips and leans forward, slowly, hesitantly, and stops, pulls back. “Can I?”

Benny slides his hand up to cup Eli’s cheek, nods eagerly. “Hell yes, baby,” he says, and Eli smirks, wraps a hand around Benny’s tie and pulls him in, lips meeting his.

It’s clumsy at first, and Eli’s lips are so chapped that it’s rough and hard, but they find their rhythm, Benny’s much softer lips slowly moving over Eli’s, and goddamn, he always thought Benny’s lips would be nice, but no amount of imagining prepared him for how soft they are, how soft _he_ is, how gentle he is with Eli, fingers stroking his cheek as they kiss, slow and unhurried. It’s good, really, really good, and if he had any inkling that the warmth in his belly was just from the whiskey, this sure as hell is proving otherwise.

Benny pulls back, breathing heavily, and his lips are pink and his eyes half-lidded and god, it’s the most beautiful thing Eli’s ever seen. “That was nice, hey?”

Eli's mouth goes dry and he can feel panic welling up in his chest, and his throat goes tight, and God, this was a mistake, he shouldn’t have done this. This is bad, real fucking bad, god, all he can think about is how bad this is, how irrevocably he’s messed up. He lets go of Benny’s tie, leans away from his touch. “Yeah… yeah. Look, I’ve got shit to do,” he says, desperately trying to keep the hysteria out of his voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow or something, yeah?”

Benny’s eyes are wide, brows furrowed, and he looks confused, maybe even hurt, but Eli doesn’t let himself think about it too much. “Baby,” Benny finally says, and the word makes Eli’s heart clench. ”What’s wrong? You can tell me, Eli.”

“Nothing,” Eli snaps, a little too harshly. “Nothing, okay? I just… I got to go.” He pushes himself up and off the couch, scrambling to search through his pockets for a cigarette. “Just got shit to do is all.” He keeps his back to Benny as he lights up, taking a long, deep drag, and he ignores the way his hands shake as he holds the smoke between his fingers.

He hears the springs squeak as Benny stands up from the sofa, the scuff of his shoes against the dingy carpet, and he thinks Benny is coming over to him, but then he hears the elevator doors open and close a few seconds later, and when Eli finally turns around, he’s alone.

Fuck. He’s got to get out of here, got to ditch town. He’s got no other choice, not after how extraordinarily he’s screwed this up, and he doesn’t think he can bear to stay and face Benny again, not after this, after what’s happened, so he makes a snap decision to grab his bag and his gun and do what he always does. Run.


	30. You Go To My Head

Sweat trickles down the meat of his palms under his gloves, so much so that it seeps through the thin material and makes the grip of his gun slick. Eli huffs, holsters his guns to peel off his gloves and wipe his palms on his jeans. The sun is relentless today, and it doesn’t help that they’re on a long stretch of wide open road at the hottest time of day.

California can fuck itself. The interstate is mostly deserted, save for a few stragglers every now and then, but the rare few travelers never stop and talk with the merchant, so they never have anything to do. Christ, an ambush or some raiders or _something_ would be nice right about now, anything to get the blood pumping and the heart racing. He never figured that being a bodyguard would be a particularly exciting job, but he imagined at least a little more to do than drag his feet and sweat his ass off.

Having Rex along makes this shit joint a little more bearable. The dog is his lifeline these days, one of the few things keeping him sane and alive. Christ, sometimes just getting stone drunk and swallowing some lead sounds like a real good idea, but then he thinks of Rex and how he’d be stuck out here in the ass end of nowhere without someone to help him get home and he puts the idea to the back of his head until the urge rises again.

It’s hard. Life’s hard. Shit sucks. You move on, find something to distract you, be it drugs or alcohol or a goddamn dog. Guess it’s all the same, really.

“Pick up the pace, boys,” the boss turns and shouts. Eli scowls, rolls his eyes. He’s got half a mind to just kill the guy and the other hired meat shields and loot their sorry asses for everything they’re worth. Can’t be much, though, since they’re all here on this shitty job with shitty pay.

The guy next to him—a huge, hulking mass of a man named Zeke—throws him a glance and raises his eyebrows, nods at the boss up ahead. “Do you think he remembers yelling at us about not watching the rear?” Zeke deadpans.

Eli grunts. “Wouldn’t bet on it.”

Zeke laughs at that, shakes his head. “Yeah, me either. Still, I guess I understand,” he says with a shrug. “The heat’ll mess a man right up.”

Eli hums. “Guess so.”

Zeke smirks. Eli lights a smoke. Neither makes any move to pick up the pace.

He’s not half bad sometimes, this Zeke guy. They ain’t friends or anything, but Eli’s met plenty of people shittier than Zeke in the last two weeks alone, so the guy’s alright in Eli’s book. Maybe he’ll spare Zeke if he ever decides to skip this joint and wipe out the crew. Might be interesting to see what this guy can do in a fight.

Besides, the guy’s far from ugly. A little rough around the edges, lots of scars, a bum eye, but that’s alright. He’s a looker as far as Eli’s concerned, and everyone has their scars. The Mojave’ll do you proper, and perfect just doesn’t exist.

Well, not unless you live in New Vegas and own a casino. That man… that annoying, insufferable, devastatingly handsome guy is… well, he's just perfect. He’s perfect, so perfect in every way, and Eli hates him for it. Hates himself for leaving.

Hell, he hates himself for a lot of things, really.

Eli sighs and pulls his bandanna up to wipe at his forehead, takes a long drag off his cigarette, ashes it absentmindedly. What the hell is he doing out here? He knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly why he’s out here like this, but he doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about _him_.

Christ, he doesn’t want to think about him, but it’s easier said than done. The job and the distance help, sure, but it’s times like this, times where he’s bored out of his mind, when Eli has to work to keep his mind off him.

Is he thinking of Eli? Probably not, truth be told. He’ll be fine. Handsome guy like him, surrounded by handsome men all day, every day? He’s probably forgotten about Eli by now, if he ever really cared about him.

And it’s fine. It’s okay. Hell, that’s why he’s out here, to get away from that shit, to push him away and let him know that he’s free to do whatever he wants and whoever he wants. It’s fine, it’s okay, and it doesn’t bother him.

Well, as long as he doesn’t think about it too much, at least, but God, if that isn’t hard. He sees that man’s face every time he closes his eyes, hears his voice in his head, feels the memory of how his lips felt when they kissed.

He tries not to remember that night, or the other night they’d shared together so long ago, but the more he tries _not_ to think about it, the more he does. Christ, the guy doesn’t even have to be around to frustrate the hell out of him.

He sighs and takes a long drag off his cigarette, lets a hand fall to Rex’s head, gives him a few good scratches behind the ears. Deep breaths, man. Deep breaths. Find something to distract himself. That’ll help for a while, at least.

One of the other hired losers, a shorter woman Eli’s seen Zeke spend most of his time with, looks back at them and gives Zeke a wave, and Zeke waves back, a smile on his face.

There, that’s something. He can work with that.

So, he clears his throat, gives Zeke a nod, keeps his face neutral. “How you know her?”

Zeke furrows his brows. “I never thought you would care to know shit like that about people.”

“I don’t,” Eli says with a shrug. “Just bored as hell, man.”

Zeke laughs at that, deep and hearty. “Damn, you really are bored, huh?”

Eli rolls his eyes, huffs loudly. “Just answer the damn question before I shoot you.”

“Alright, alright,” Zeke says. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll tell you everything.”

“It’s not, but, you know,” Eli motions for him to continue. “Go on, then.”

Zeke sighs, runs a hand through his immaculately styled pompadour. “Well, Fritzy and I,” he starts, smile on his face, “we go way back. About ten years now we’ve known each other, if I remember right.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Anyways, I was fresh out of the Brotherhood and she was running with the Followers. I needed some patching up and she was the poor fool who got stuck with me and, well.” A shrug. “We’ve been taking care of each other ever since.”

“You ran with them Brotherhood fools?” Eli asks, eyebrow raised. “They don’t seem your style.”

Zeke shrugs. “It was family tradition. We all joined up as soon as we were old enough.”

“Christ,” Eli shakes his head, takes a pull off his cigarette. “Your family sounds miserable.”

“I mean, they’re all dead, so yeah, I’d say so,” Zeke deadpans.

Eli hums, rolls his smoke back and forth between his index finger and his thumb. “You’re better off without them.” He makes sure to keep his eyes on Zeke to catch his reaction, the way he flinches at the comment and quickly shrugs it off. The guy is transparent as hell, heart fastened firmly on his sleeve. Goddamn open book is what he is.

Zeke recovers quickly, masks the flinch as a shrug as he unholsters his pistol and busies himself with reloading, wiping the grit from the handle and the muzzle with the back of his hand. It’s a nice gun, a classic 9mm encased in a shiny nickel finish, some engraving on the side that Eli can’t make out. Looks heavy, but like a satisfying weight, solid and warm in the palm, the kind you miss and feel naked without.

An underappreciated gun, the 9mm. Sturdy. Reliable. He hasn’t run into too many people using them these days. Takes a certain kind of person to appreciate them. Eli clears his throat, gives Zeke a nod towards the pistol in his hand. “Nice piece.”

Zeke looks down at the gun, back up at Eli. “Oh,” he says, blinks slowly. “Thanks, man.”

Eli nods. “My, uh…” He stops, shakes his head. “This guy I knew. He had a fancy 9mm like that.”

“Really?” Zeke asks. “This old thing cost a fortune. Is your guy made of caps?”

“He’s not _my guy_ ,” Eli snaps, shoves his hands in his pockets. It almost stings to say it, like he’s finally accepting what he already knew, deep down. Fuck, but he was an idiot to ever think otherwise, that maybe the two of them could ever be… something.

Now? Now, they ain’t shit, and it’s entirely his fault.

Christ. How had he ever managed to convince himself that his… feelings could be reciprocated? He hates himself for it, wants to scream and shout and kill something and hurt _someone_ , anyone, just to work through the overwhelming anger.

Deep breaths. In and out. Inhale and exhale. He got himself into this, so now he just has to live with it. Simple as that. Inhale, exhale.

“He’s just…” Eli shrugs, eyes fixed on his boots. “Just some guy I know.”

Is that how he thinks of Eli? Just some guy? Does he think of Eli as more, did he ever, _could_ he ever? Eli is fairly certain that’s all he is and ever will be, just some guy, some wanderer drifting in and out of his life when the mood strikes him. It’s all he knows, all he’s accustomed to, and he was an idiot to ever think that maybe he could settle down and stay and not run and that maybe he could be something more than a drifter.

Well. Lesson learned.

Zeke raises an eyebrow at Eli’s answer, nods slowly. “Just some guy, huh? Why don’t you tell me about him?”

“Not much to say,” Eli shrugs. “Besides, why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Zeke says, shit-eating grin plastered firmly on his face. “I’m just bored as hell, man.”

Eli sneers, throws him the bird. “Hey, fuck you.”

Zeke laughs at that, gives Eli a light punch on the shoulder. “Just giving you a taste of your own medicine, pal.”

Eli rolls his eyes, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Look, I don’t know what you want me to say. He’s an asshole. End of story.”

“Alright,” Zeke nods, motioning vaguely at Eli. “Start small then. What’s this asshole’s name?”

“It’s…” He stops, the words dying in his throat. Damn. He hasn’t said his name or even let himself _think_ his name for weeks now. It’s strange. He almost has to psyche himself up just to say it, like saying his name will somehow make the man himself appear in front of him in the flesh.

God, he doesn’t even want to think about it, doesn’t want to think what he might say to Eli if they were to see each other again. It might just be a repeat of their first encounter. He wouldn’t be surprised. Hell, he wouldn’t even blame him for it. Someone’s an asshole to you, you do what you have to. He’s done the same to countless people over the last few months alone. He gets it, he knows how it goes.

“Well?” Zeke pries, eyebrows raised. “Come on, man. You can tell me.”

Eli clears his throat, wets his lips. “His name,” he says. “It’s… it’s Benny.”

“Benny,” Zeke repeats. “Huh. Interesting name. Is he an interesting guy?”

A shrug. “Interesting is one word for what he is.”

Zeke hums. “Any other words for him?”

“Yeah,” says Eli. “Annoying, for starters. Pain in the ass.”

“That’s four words.”

“Alright, smartass,” Eli snaps. “You want me to talk or you going to interrupt me every second?”

Zeke smirks, but motions for him to continue.

“He’s… smart. Real smart, you know? Way smarter than he gives himself credit for.” Eli shrugs, shakes his head. “He’s funny, too. I mean, I’d never tell him that, yeah? But the guy can be funny when he wants to. And handsome, man, Zeke, the guy is just…” Eli stops, scrubs his hands down his face. “God, he’s so gorgeous, man, and charming as all hell. He’s just.” He wets his lips, gestures vaguely with a gloved hand. “He’s everything, man.”

Eli finally looks over at Zeke, the man’s face blank, unreadable, and he suddenly feels very aware of the man’s eyes on him, the way he’s looking at him, searching Eli’s face for something.

Eli decides he doesn’t like Zeke very much anymore.

When Zeke finally speaks, he’s quiet, voice soft. “Do you love him?” he asks mildly, almost innocently.

“No,” Eli says, not missing a beat. “I mean… I don’t—“ He sighs, rakes his fingers through his hair. “Look, we better catch up with the rest of them before that red faced asshole starts yelling at us again.”

Zeke doesn’t argue, giving Eli a short nod, and he’s grateful for that. He doesn’t have the patience for arguing right now, doesn’t have the mental capacity. All he can think about is Zeke’s words, floating around in his head, over and over and over and over.

Do you love him? Do you love him? _Do you love him?_


	31. Something's Got A Hold On Me

The desert is cold at night, biting and sharp. The winds cut to the core of him, like knives slicing down through muscle and flesh, straight to the bone. It’s one of the most surprising things about living in the desert, just how outrageously  _freezing_ it can get when the sun goes down.

God, he hates the cold. Doesn’t like the heat, either, but he doesn’t much know how to handle the cold and the way it makes his joints ache and his head pound. The sun, he can avoid. Can’t really avoid the cold when it’s _everywhere_.

Eli shivers and pulls his jacket tighter around him, lifts the collar up to better guard his neck. He’s exhausted, but he can’t even think about sleeping when it’s this cold. Besides, he’s not sure if he could, anyways. They’re dangerously close to deathclaw territory here, but he had to stop for the night, he _had_ to.

His leg is getting worse. Just, constant, screaming, burning pain. The wound is infected, he knows, and he thinks he’s started to run a fever, but his supplies have completely run dry and he can’t walk anymore without stumbling and falling every other step. He’s fucked and he knows it and he can’t do a goddamn thing about it.

He’s not a fan of this whole ‘being helpless’ thing. Normally, he’d fight tooth and nail and kill anyone in his path to save his own skin, but it’s so cold and the nearest settlement is miles away and he’s so tired and all he can smell is blood and smoke and burning and everything feels so heavy and he hates it so much.

The fire sits in the center of the makeshift camp, a good ten feet away from where he’s currently slumped against a log in the dirt. It’s a pitiful little thing, this fire. Just barely hot enough to keep burning, the winds constantly threatening to choke the miserable flames.

Christ, he should have fallen closer to the fire so he could get some actual warmth from it. With the way the winds are blowing and how small the flame is, he can barely feel any heat emanating from it. God, the universe seems to be going out of its way to inconvenience him in every way possible today.

He could always try pushing himself closer to the campfire. Might not be a smart idea, as he’s barely got enough energy to keep his eyes open, but it’s worth a shot. Not much left to lose, not at this point. So, he clenches his hands into fists, digs his fingernails into his bare palms, and shoves his lower body forward and the exposed slashed flesh on his leg rubs into gravel and he cries out in pain.

Fuck. Okay. He stops, takes a deep breath, pushes forward again, biting down on his bottom lip to hold back the shouts as his wounds scrape against the dirt. The fire is still several feet away and he still can’t feel any warmth from the damn thing. He swallows, braces himself for the pain and—

“Need some help, baby?”

Eli freezes in place and looks up to find Benny staring down at him, arms full of sticks and twigs. “No,” he says, “I don’t need any help.”

Benny rolls his eyes at that. “Sure you do, baby. You’re just too stubborn to ask for it.”

Eli huffs, folds his arms as he rolls his eyes back at him. “Look, you going to help me or are you just going to stand there like a piece of shit?”

“I don’t know, baby,” Benny smiles. “You going to ask nicely?”

“I’m going to stab you in the leg is what I’m going to do,” Eli deadpans. “Get your checkered ass over here and help me, Ben.”

Benny’s face softens at that, the smug grin becoming a fonder one, the sharp look in his eyes turning almost tender. It pulls at Eli’s heart, the way Benny looks at him sometimes. Almost makes him feel cared for.

He missed that look. Missed him, too.

Benny drops the firewood to the floor unceremoniously and stoops down to help Eli up, arm wrapped firmly around his middle. “There you go, baby, nice and easy,” says Benny, brushing dirt and dust off Eli’s clothes. “How you feeling?”

“Like shit,” says Eli, not missing a beat. “Now, move me closer to the fire, would you?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Benny whines. “Work, work, work. Glad to know that’s all I’m good for.”

Eli jabs him in the side with his elbow, rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Benjamin.”

“Whatever you say, Elijah.”

It’s awkward, the two of them shuffling over to the campfire, the bulk of Eli’s weight resting on Benny’s side, but they manage to make it close enough for Eli’s liking, and the two of them drop to the ground, Benny’s arm still wrapped around Eli’s torso.

They’re close, practically right on top of each other, really. The light from the fire casts a soft, warm glow on Benny’s skin, and Eli has to fight the urge to reach up and run his fingers down Benny’s jaw.

“So,” Benny finally says, breaking the long, quiet moment. “What do you say I take a look at that leg of yours?”

Eli blinks a few times and shakes his head, shrugs. “Be my guest.”

The wind bites into his skin as Benny peels the leg of his pants up to expose the wound, sending a shiver up Eli’s spine. “Fuck,” he mutters, wiping away the cold sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. “God, that hurts.”

Benny purses his lips, gives Eli a nod. “How bad does it hurt?”

“I don’t know,” Eli snaps. “Really fucking bad.”

Benny hums. “Looks that bad, too.”

“Yeah,” Eli sighs. “I figured as much.”

A coyote howls somewhere in the not-too-far-off distance, somewhere to the northwest. A few others join in, too, filling the night with the sounds of yowling and yelping, steadily becoming more and more frantic. It’s chilling, the sounds they make, their cries and barks a haunting cacophony.

And then, they suddenly just… stop. The coyotes stop and the wind slows and the bugs fall silent and everything just _stops_.

“They’re getting closer,” Eli whispers. “The deathclaws.”

Benny nods. “Can you walk?”

Eli laughs harshly, drags a hand through his sweat soaked hair. “No, Benny, I can’t walk.”

“You sure?” Benny asks.

“Pretty goddamn sure.”

A nod. “Okay,” Benny says mildly, and he reaches into his pocket, pulls out Maria, and unloads three rounds directly into Eli’s stomach.

Eli doesn’t feel the impact of the bullets entering his flesh, and he doesn’t feel them exit, either. He doesn’t feel much of anything, really. He looks down and sees blood and smells it and feels it steadily oozing from the bullets’ entry wounds, but… no pain.

Flecks of blood—his blood—dot Benny’s face, splattered across his cheeks and his lips and nose. It’s a strange sight, to see him sit there calmly with Eli’s blood on his face. He wonders if this is what Benny looked like the first time he shot him, all cool and collected and utterly beautiful. It’s fucked up, he knows, admiring his murderer’s looks while he bleeds out into the dirt, but he’s a dying man, and a dying man doesn’t have the luxury of censoring his thoughts and feelings, even to himself.

“You’re gorgeous, Benny,” he breathes, reaching out a hand to clutch at Benny’s jacket with bloody fingers.

Benny smiles at that, soft and sweet, and he leans down, presses his cheek to Eli’s, and whispers three words in Eli’s ear, three words that he’s ached to hear, three words that make his heart clench and his eyes water. He lets his eyes fall shut, focuses on those words, the feel of Benny’s warmth, the way those words had sounded coming from Benny’s lips. It’s good, so good, and he’s so tired he doesn’t even notice Benny’s absence until he’s gone and the only thing he’s aware of is the sound of feet hitting gravel and running far, far away.

* * *

The first thing Eli sees when he opens his eyes is Rex’s sleeping form curled up next to his head. He watches Rex’s chest rise and fall with each breath, syncs his own breathing up with the dog’s. Can’t remember Rex being there when he… fell asleep?

Wait. That’s not right.

He bolts upright, frantically shoves his hands under his shirt to run them over his stomach, down his leg, feeling for entry wounds and dried blood, but all his fingers find is toned flesh. Scarred, sure, but no recent wounds and no blood.

Jesus Christ. It wasn’t real. Just some screwed up scenario his brain had cooked up for him. That’s it. Lord have mercy.

Zeke is just a few feet away, still fast asleep on the floor, Fritz curled up next to him. He vaguely remembers getting hammered with them last night, but it’s foggy and the memories are disjointed.

The dream, however, he remembers perfectly clearly. The smell of the campfire and the sound of the coyote howls and the feel of Benny’s cheek against his and his voice whispering those words in his ear, all of it burned into his brain.

He can still hear Benny’s voice, hear every accent of every syllable of those words he’d said. He tries not to let himself think about it too much, but it’s hard to try to push the words from his mind. Hell, he doesn’t really _want_ to.

He needs some fresh air, something to shoot, anything to clear his head. So, he dresses himself quickly, grabs his gun and some empty bottles off the floor, and heads out of the house they’d holed up in for the night and into the dry Mojave morning.

It’s still early, maybe seven, seven-thirty in the morning, judging by the sun. Fritz and Zeke won’t be up for a while yet, at least another hour or two, so he’s got time to kill. Might as well spend it shooting things.

Things have been… weird the past few weeks, ever since the three of them decided to up and quit their shitty job and run off together. Not bad weird, not really. Just… not what he’s used to. It’s not like when he was running with Gannon. These guys, they don’t bug him and nag him and they’ve stopped trying to force him to talk about nonsense he doesn’t want to talk about. They just… leave him be when he wants to be left alone and let him do things his way and they don’t try to talk to him and they don’t try to understand him.

It’s a nice change of pace. He’s used to people trying to pick his brain and figure him out, but Fritz and Zeke just don’t seem to care.

There’s an old wooden fence at the back of the house, more of a glorified collection of logs and wire, really, but it looks sturdy enough to handle a few empty bottles, so Eli shrugs out of his jacket and lines up the bottles on the top rung, nice and easy.

Not as fun as moving targets, but it’s something.

The warm sun is nice on his skin. He feels bare without his jacket, but it’s good to soak up the sunlight and warm his bones. Been awhile since he just took in the sun, the warmth, the Mojave. Feels nice.

Could be better, though. Would be nice if Benny was here. He’s not even sure what he’d say to him if he was here. Not even sure if Benny would listen.

It’s always been a struggle to keep Benny off his mind, but it’s been downright impossible for days now. The man consumes his every waking thought, always at the front of his mind. He just wants it to stop. He wants to move on and stop thinking about him and stop remembering how soft his lips are and his skin is under his fingers. It’s absolute  _torture_ and he wants it to stop.

He exhales, inhales, holds his breath, lines up the shot, and hits the first bottle dead-on, shards of glass glinting in the morning sun as the bottle explodes into shrapnel.

He thinks of Benny’s voice, his laugh, his smile.

Lines up the shot, pulls the trigger. Dead-on.

He thinks of Benny’s hands, his arms, his hair, that garish jacket of his.

Lines up the shot, pulls the trigger. Bang.

Do you love him?

Pull the trigger. Bang.

Do you love him?

Bang.

_Do you love him?_

“Eli?”

He stops, turns, gun still raised, and finds Zeke standing there just a few feet away, hair mussed, hands on his hips. “Yeah?”

Zeke clears his throat, gives him a nod. “Are you okay?”

“Course,” Eli says, lowering his arm, shoving his gun in his back pocket. “Why are you up?”

Zeke nods at Eli, raises an eyebrow. “The gunshots woke Fritzy up and Fritzy woke me up.”

“Oh.” A shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“I figured as much,” Zeke says.

“Yeah… Look,” Eli says, runs a hand through his hair, “I got to go. Got something I need to do.”

Zeke nods. “It’s been a while coming, hasn’t it?”

Eli shrugs. “Probably. I don’t know. But I got to leave, now.”

“Good luck, man.”

Eli laughs harshly, bends down to grab his jacket, throws it over his shoulder. “Luck’s never really been on my side.”


	32. Something's Gotta Give

Eli throws open the front door to the Tops and storms inside, Rex trailing at his heels.

Swank is working the desk, same as ever, and his jaw goes slack when he catches sight of Eli barging inside. “Holy shit.” Swank shakes his head, gestures wildly, like he’s not quite sure what to do with his hands. “Eli, Jesus Christ. What are you doing here?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eli says, breathing heavily. “Where is he?”

Swank furrows his brows. “He’s upstairs in the prez, but Eli—“

“Thanks,” he says, waves a hand, and speeds away again.

“Eli,” Swank shouts behind him. “He’s in a meeting, Eli, Christ’s sake.”

He doesn’t acknowledge Swank’s yelling, just powers on ahead through the crowd and practically stumbles into the elevator car, slumps his weight against the cool metal wall as soon as he makes it inside.

Besides a few daily short stops to let Rex eat and sleep, this is the first time in over a week that he’s let himself really take a moment to rest and catch his breath and just… slow down. He’s been going nonstop, full speed since he left Zeke and Fritz back in Cali, just pushing himself harder and harder and harder to get here as fast as possible. Still took him a good nine full days to get here, but he’s here, he made it, he’s back.

Fuck. He’s here. And Benny’s here. This is his one last chance to turn back, to turn around and forget about all of this and everything that’s happened.

Not that he wants to, or thinks that he could. He’s had plenty of time to stop and turn back and head back out to California and maybe try to find Zeke and Fritz, but he hasn’t. He kept going, kept trudging on, on and on until he was back in Nevada and the Strip was a glowing beacon on the horizon and even then, he kept going, pushing forward until he finally made it on the Strip.

Even if he did leave now, what good would it do? He’d still have these feelings and still have these thoughts and he’d still be stuck on Benny and hell, running has just always made things worse, so for once instead of running away, he wants to try running _back_.

God, but it was a long trip. Whether or not it was worth it, well. Guess that’s about to be decided. Either way, this is it. Shit’s about to come to a head and this could very well be the last time he steps foot in the Tops.

Well. He knew this day was coming sooner or later. It was always inevitable, that he’d either fuck up irrevocably and get his ass kicked out or he’d just get sick of Vegas and skip town and never look back. All this time he was so sure it would be his choice when he finally left, but now? Now, it’s looking like the former just might be the more likely.

Not like he expects to be tossed out on his ass, but still. There’s only two ways this can end, and the option he’s thought about the most, the option he really, really prefers is laughably impossible, so he’s trying to keep his expectations realistic.

The Presidential is quiet when the elevator finally makes it up to the suite. Everything looks exactly as he left it, too. Clothes and shoes and guns and spent casings scattered about the floor, just how he remembers. The whiskey bottle they’d shared that night he left is still there, too. Untouched. Part of him wants to pound a few shots down before charging right in, but he knows he should do this as sober as possible. Won’t help matters if Benny can smell whiskey on his breath.

He’s waited long enough to do this, and he knows he’s stalling, so he takes a deep breath and heads straight for the meeting room.

Every head in the room turns to look at Eli when he throws open the door, a dozen chairmen gawking and staring at him unashamedly. Benny, however, seems determined not to look at him, not to make eye contact. He just keeps smoking, keeps his eyes on the scratch paper in front of him, pointedly ignoring Eli’s presence.

“I need to talk to you,” Eli finally says after a long stretch of silence. “Now.”

Benny’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead and he pulls a mocking sneer, eyes still fixed on the paper in front of him. “Can it wait?” he asks curtly.

Eli scoffs. “No,” he says, “it can’t fucking wait.” He motions toward the door, eyes practically staring daggers into Benny’s form. “Now. Please.”

Benny sighs, mutters something under his breath as he leans forward to stamp out his cigarette with more force than necessary. “I won’t be long, boys,” he says as he pushes himself out of his chair and breezes past Eli, not even sparing a glance back.

Of all the things he expected from Benny, anger definitely wasn’t one of them. He can’t even remember Benny ever being really, genuinely mad at him. He’s always been too laid back for anger, too go-with-the-flow. This is new, unexpected. To be honest, he’s not quite sure how to handle it.

Benny’s got his back to Eli when he follows behind him into the suite, arms folded, shoulders tense. Jesus, he really is mad.

“What's got you all in a twist?” Eli asks casually, nodding at Benny’s back.

He doesn’t answer immediately. He keeps his back to Eli, shoulders working, jaw jumping each time he clenches the muscle. “Three months,” Benny finally says. “Three goddamn months, Eli.” He turns to face Eli, to look him in the eye, and it does something to Eli, seeing Benny like this. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like that he did this.

“Look, I know, I was gone a long time,” Eli says, “but if you’ll just—“

“No,” Benny shouts, and he stalks forward to jab Eli in the chest with a finger. “No, Eli, you listen to me, for once in your goddamn life. You _left_ me. For _three fucking months_. No word, no nothing, I mean,” he rakes his hands through his hair, rubs at his temples. “Eli, I thought you were _dead_. You just left and didn’t tell anyone, not me, not Swank, there was no way for me to know if you were even alive or if something had happened to you. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, because I was so goddamn worried about you.”

Eli’s mouth goes dry. He shrugs, gives Benny a nod. “This ain’t the first time I’ve left and been gone for months at a time. You never made a big deal about it before.”

“Because that was before, baby,” Benny says, exasperation creeping into his voice. “This ain’t before, you get me? This is now. Things are different _now_. You know? I mean, goddamn, Eli, I actually thought…” He shakes his head. “No. Doesn’t matter what I thought. You can get out.”

“Benny, just let me explain to you—“

“Oh, is that why you came back, Eli? To explain to me why you kissed me and left with a flimsy excuse and made me think that you were gone for good? Is that why you came back? Just to rub it in my face that you can leave whenever you please?”

“Ben—“

“Do you like having that power over me, Eli? You like knowing that you can come and go as you please and never tell me what the hell is going on? You like that, Eli?

“No,” Eli yells, “Fucking hell, Benny, no.”

“Well, then, what are you here for?” Benny asks. “Huh? Why did you come back?”

Eli grabs fistfuls of his hair and shouts wordlessly, kicks at the leg of a nearby chair. “I came back to fucking tell you that I love you.”

The words fall from his lips like bricks, landing heavily in the space between them.

“You—” Benny freezes, wets his lips, swallows audibly. “You what? Eli—”

“No, now it’s my turn to talk.” Eli huffs, hands still grabbing at his hair as he paces up and down the length of the room. “Look, you were right, okay? I _am_ falling apart at the seams, and I _am_ scared. I’m so fucking scared and I’m a goddamn mess, but you make me want to be better. You get that? You make me want to take care of myself and you make me feel wanted and you make me want to stay and not leave and I just—“ He shakes his head, licks his lips. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Benny. Christ, I love you, Benny, you son of a bitch, I fucking _love_ you."

And it’s okay if you don’t love me, I don’t blame you,” he says. “Lord knows I put you through a load of shit, and I didn’t come here expecting anything out of this, okay? I just…" He shrugs. "Benny, I just needed you to know, because you’re all I can think about and you’re all I want and I don’t know how to move on, and this is the only thing I could think to do, so just… please. Make this easy on me.”

Benny grabs Eli gently by the shoulders to stop his frantic pacing, a smile pulling at his lips. “Eli… It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay,” Eli says. “I’m making a fool of myself and I ruined everything and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Benny. I’m sorry.”

“Eli,” Benny says again, softer this time. “Look at me, will you?”

Eli sighs, but relents, brings his eyes up to meet Benny’s. He’d almost forgotten how nice Benny’s eyes are, how dark and brown and inviting they are. It’s a goddamn cliche, but he could get lost looking into those gorgeous eyes of his.

Benny smiles, brings a hand up to cup Eli’s cheek, thumb gently stroking back and forth. “I love you, too, baby.”

“Look, Benny, you don’t have to say that just to make me feel better, it’s okay if you—“

“I mean it, Eli. I love you, so goddamn much.” He shakes his head, his other hand moving to Eli’s other cheek, holding his face between his hands. “I’ve loved you for so long, Eli, and I never thought I’d say it out loud, but I love you, Eli Grey, I love you so much, and I always have and I always will.”

Eli licks his lips, raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

Benny nods. “Yeah, Eli. I love you.”

He smiles. “Can I kiss you?” Eli asks. “Please?”

“Yeah,” Benny laughs. “Course, baby.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Eli says, and he pulls him in and presses his lips to Benny’s.

They’re both eager and frantic and it’s a mess of tongues and teeth and searching hands and he feels like an eager teenager having his first make out behind a shed, but it’s good and he feels good and he’s wanted this for so long and all he can think about is how good Benny's mouth feels on his and Benny’s hands on his waist pulling him close.

Eli pulls away for breath, giving Benny a roguish grin as he moves his mouth to Benny’s neck, pressing hard kisses up and down his jaw and collarbone as he backs them up against the nearest wall.

“Goddamn, Eli,” Benny breathes. “I never knew you was this good at this.”

Eli hums against his skin, unbuttoning Benny’s jacket with his free hand, pulling up his shirt to run his hands over Benny’s soft stomach. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, baby,” he whispers in Benny's ear.

Benny grins and pulls Eli back up for another kiss, both of them pulling each other back to the bedroom as they clumsily pull off each other’s clothes, throwing every garment to the floor carelessly, a veritable bread crumb trail of clues as to what exactly is about to take place here.

Eli doesn’t care. He couldn’t give less of a shit if the chairmen know what’s going on. He doesn’t care if they heard the whole conversation, doesn’t care if they’re listening right now, he doesn’t care about anything other than the fact that he loves Benny and Benny loves him.

“I’m sorry,” Benny breathes in his ear. “For getting mad.”

Eli shakes his head, trails his kisses up to Benny’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, his chin. “S’okay, Benny.”

“No, it ain’t,” he says, one hand moving to Eli’s back, the other up into his hair. “You had your reasons for leaving.”

“They were stupid ones,” Eli breathes between kisses. “Stupid reasons. I ain’t ever leaving again.”

Benny laughs, tightens his grip on Eli’s hair. “Promise?”

“Hell yeah, that’s a promise.”

Benny hums, gives Eli a playful push to the chest. “Good. Now, I believe you and me’s got some business to take care of?” he says, hand moving down to the zipper on his jeans.

Eli moans, a breathy sound at the back of his throat. “Christ, forget the bed,” he says, and he hooks his arms around Benny’s neck and pulls him to the floor.


	33. Earth Angel

He doesn’t remember his dream when he wakes up, for once. It’s the soundest sleep he’s had in who knows how long. No bad dreams, no gunshots in the distance, no one to shake him awake in the middle of the night. Just pure, uninterrupted sleep. It’s nice, really. He could get used to this, just sleeping like a normal person.

He doesn’t think he’s ever had a full night of sleep in his entire goddamn life, not until now. It’s times like this that he remembers just how bad he is at keeping up with normal things like sleeping and eating.

Maybe that’ll all change now, though. He can’t see himself wanting to leave Vegas much anymore, not now, not with how things have changed, so maybe he’ll adopt a normal sleep schedule and eat like a normal person. Maybe even take baths and take care of himself and all those basic things well-adjusted people do.

Alright, he’ll take baths, but brushing his hair is where he draws the line. No one has time for that shit.

There are bullet holes in the ceiling above Benny’s bed, scattered across the plaster in random patterns, a few clustered together over here, a few isolated holes over there. Even looks like someone might have fired a shotgun at the goddamn ceiling at some point. Wouldn’t surprise him, really. This whole place is a dump, what’s a few shotgun pellets in the ceiling at this point?

Eli runs a palm over his hair, pushing the stringy mess back and away from his face. Everything aches, his arms, his legs, his hips, but it’s a good ache, a pleasant one. Hell, even if he was hurting like the devil right now, he wouldn’t much care. The business they got up to all last night? Worth a couple days of sore muscles.

Benny’s still there in bed with him, peacefully and solidly sound asleep next to him. Jesus, but the man can sleep for ages.

That’s okay, though. He could use the rest, Eli’s sure of that. Benny had mentioned how many sleepless nights he’d had while Eli was gone. The least he can do is let him get some extra sleep.

This is a new sight for Eli, Benny sound asleep, eyes closed and hair hanging down over his eyes, lips parted ever so slightly. He was long gone by the time Eli woke the last time they did this, all that time ago, when they were no more than a couple of strangers going off for an ill-advised fuck.

Almost feels like a lifetime has passed since then. They’ve both changed so much, both a little older, a little smarter, a little softer. And that’s okay. It’s okay to be a little soft, a little vulnerable around Benny. It’s not a weakness, not when it’s with him. It’s okay.

Only took him a year and a half to learn that, but he’s always been a stubborn one, or so he’s been told.

Eli reaches out a tentative hand to rest on Benny’s cheek, slowly swiping his thumb back and forth, savoring the feel of his soft skin. It’s strange to think, that he can just… do things like this now. Just reach out and touch him, just because. All those months of wanting to touch him, all that burning and aching and yearning to feel his skin under his fingers, and now here he is, in bed with Benny, touching him and feeling his skin. Just because.

Took the two of them a long time to get here. Really, if he’s being honest with himself, he never thought they could get to this point, never thought this was a possibility for them. It’s still strange to think, that Benny feels the same way Eli does, that he… loves Eli.

It’s like no matter how many times he replays that conversation in his head, rolls the words around in his skull, they still don’t feel entirely real. Benny loves him. He actually loves him. It’s almost too good to be true, and good things don’t happen to Eli. They just don’t. But this is real, this is good, this is _theirs_. Whatever this thing is, it’s real and he never thought he could be this happy, but he is, he’s so unashamedly  _happy_ and so in love and it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever felt in his life.

Eli’s not entirely sure what exactly he did to deserve something as good as this or someone as good as Benny, but he’s sure as hell not going to question it. Maybe life just finally decided to throw one decent thing his way.

Whatever the reason, there’s no point thinking about it too much. He loves Benny. Benny loves him. That’s all that matters, ain’t it?

Eli takes a deep breath, heaves a content sigh. He could stay like this forever, drowsy and happy and warm, in bed with a gorgeous man he loves. This is the sort of thing people fucking… write poems and shit about. All those cheesy songs on the radio, they make sense. He gets all that now, really understands it. Never really understood it before, never understood what could bring someone to write such flowery romantic nonsense like that, but now, looking down at Benny, he just  _gets_ it.

Eli smiles, brushes the hair from Benny’s eyes. The man has never looked more beautiful to him. He’s always known Benny is a handsome guy, always been able to appreciate his good looks, but something about the way he looks now makes his chest tight and his stomach flip and all he can think about is how he loves this man so goddamn much.

Feeling like this? It’s good. He could get used to this.

Benny’s breathing shifts and his eyes flutter open, a smile already forming on his face. “Hey, you,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

“Hey, yourself.”

Benny hums, wraps an arm around Eli’s waist to pull him close. “Fancy seeing you here, baby.”

“You surprised?” Eli asks, quirks an eyebrow.

“No,” he shakes his head, moves a hand up to the back of Eli’s neck to twirl the ends of his hair with his fingers. “Just happy to see your shining face, baby.”

Eli laughs. “Shining? You sure about that?”

“I know what I said.”

Eli grumbles, but doesn’t argue, just rolls his eyes lazily and rests his head under Benny’s chin, fingers running back and forth through the smattering of hair on Benny’s chest. “You’re a sap, you know that?”

He feels the rumble in Benny’s ribs as he chuckles, presses a kiss to the top of Eli’s head. “Only with you, baby.”

Eli smiles to himself. “Good.”

“Oh,” Benny drawls. “Jealous, are we?”

“No,” Eli says, not missing a beat. “Nothing to be jealous about.”

“Damn right,” says Benny. “This cat ain’t got eyes for nobody but you, Eli.”

Eli smirks, lifts his head to meet Benny's eyes. "Yeah?"

"Always, Eli."

"Good," Eli chuckles and leans down to press his lips to Benny's. It’s slow and gentle, practically chaste after what they got up to last night, but it’s nice, all soft and warm, Benny’s hands searching and roaming up and down his body. Benny gets him riled up so easy, that white-hot burning already flaring up in the pit of his stomach as Benny grabs his hips and pulls him flush against his body.

Eli breaks the kiss and pulls away, already breathing heavily. “Slow down, big guy.”

“What’s wrong?” Benny asks. “Everything good, baby?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eli reassures him, resting a hand on his cheek. “Just got something I need to take care of before word gets around that I’m back in town.”

Benny frowns. “You get into some trouble, baby?” He shrugs, gestures vaguely with a hand. “I mean, besides the usual trouble you get into.”

“Sort of,” Eli says. “You, uh, know how I was gone all that time?”

Benny nods.

“Right. Well, I took a job as a bodyguard for some dumbass and his caravan and I... might have stolen some of his caps right before I quit.”

“Might have,” Benny repeats, eyebrow raised.

“Okay, no, I definitely did,” Eli deadpans, waving a hand nonchalantly. “I just need to, you know…” A shrug. “Tie up some loose ends before the loose ends come looking for their money back.”

Benny nods. “You want me to tag along in case things go sideways?”

“I’ll be fine,” Eli says, pulling himself out of Benny’s embrace to stretch and pick up his scattered clothes. “Besides,” he bends down to pick up his shirt, pulls it over his head. “Need you to have plausible deniability in case something happens to him and someone goes looking for him.”

“Hey, baby, anyone asks, these lips are sealed,” Benny raises his hands palms out, mimics zipping his lips shut. “I been in the business long enough to know how it goes.”

Eli smiles softly, leans down to give him a quick kiss, and another, a third. “Good man.”

Benny grins back, hands moving up to grab Eli’s shirt, tugging lightly. “You sure you got to go?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Eli sighs, laying a hand on Benny’s. “That guy comes in here and shoots up the place, Swank’ll never let me live it down if the carpets get bloody.”

“More than they already are, you mean?”

“Christ,” Eli rolls his eyes. “That loser and his goddamn carpets.”

Benny’s quiet for a moment, silently watching Eli dress. “He missed you, you know.”

Eli hums.

“I missed you.”

He smiles, meets Benny's soft gaze with one of his own. He likes this side of Benny, likes the attention and the love and the affection, and he wants to give it back in equal measure, too. He just wants to give this man everything he can. It’s overwhelming, the feelings he has for Benny, the _love_ he has for Benny. “I missed you, too,” he says softly.

Fucking hell, he’s so, so in love.

“Alright, well,” Eli shrugs. “Guess I’d better head out.”

Benny nods and throws off the blankets, grabbing some clothes off the floor to dress quickly. “I’ll see you off, baby.”

They leave the bedroom and cross the sitting room together and Benny opens the door for Eli, and they both stand there, neither wanting to be the one to make the move to leave.

“You’re gorgeous, baby,” Benny says, lifting a hand to brush against Eli’s cheek.

Eli smiles. “You, too.”

He takes a deep breath, rubs at the back of his neck. “So, listen. I know we didn’t exactly have a lot of time for talking yesterday,” he says, eyebrows raised suggestively, “but, what do you say we lock this little arrangement down, make it all exclusive-like, you dig?”

Eli smirks, his heart skipping a beat at the question. “You asking me to be your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Benny says.

“Well,” Eli nods. “There’s your answer.”

“Yes?” Benny asks eagerly.

“Yeah,” Eli laughs. “Yeah, I’d like that.” At this point, he’s just a smiling, grinning fool, and he pulls Benny in and presses his lips to Benny’s, the two of them smiling into the kiss. Lord, but it’s good, this, _them_.

Eli breaks the kiss, rests his forehead against Benny’s. “I’d go through everything again, all that shit I went through, to be with you,” he whispers. “Everything, all of it, fuck, I don’t care, Benny, I’d do it all again if it meant I got to be with you.”

He watches Benny’s face, watches the way his smile spreads and his dimples show and how bright his eyes are. It’s a beautiful sight. _He’s_ a beautiful sight. “I love you, Eli,” he says.

“I love you, Benny,” says Eli. “Now, don’t go far. No running off this time, yeah? You and me,” he smiles, “we got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

Benny smiles. “We do, don’t we?”

Eli gives him one last kiss and pats him on the cheek before he turns to leave, throws him a playful wink. “See you soon.”

“Be careful, Eli,” Benny says.

“Always am,” he says over his shoulder, and he makes it a few steps down the hall towards the elevator before he stops in his tracks, turns back to face Benny standing in the doorway. Christ, what the hell is he doing? He shakes his head to himself and swears, hurries to close the distance between them. “That asshole can wait,” he says, and he pushes Benny back into the room and against the nearest wall, slamming the door behind them as their lips meet.


	34. With Plenty Of Money And You

“Hit me.”

The dealer deftly takes a card from the top of the deck and slides it across the table in one quick, fluid motion, gesturing at the card with a dramatic flourish of his hand. “One card for the sir.”

The man lays his hand flat, palm down, on the card and pulls it closer, but doesn’t move to uncover the card, just stares blankly at the back of his hand for a long moment.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Barry, just look at the goddamn card.”

Barry throws him a scowl and ashes his cigar with his free hand. “I’ll look at it when I’m damn well ready, Silas.”

Silas scoffs, rolls his eyes. “Well, you better get damn well ready soon, pally. We all got lives here, you know.” He elicits a small buzz of laugh from around the table and smiles smugly, laces his hands behind his head. “Come on, Barry boy. Chop chop.”

The rest of the table joins in on the heckling and Barry flips them all the finger, which only serves to encourage them more and more. “Screw all of you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Silas waves a hand, crosses his arms. “Just stop stalling, will you?”

“Alright, Jesus Christ,” Barry says. He delicately lifts his hand off the card, looking up at the group around the table, back down at the card, and swallows audibly before finally pulling up the corner of the card.

“Well?”

Silas furrows his brows, finally turning the card over face up to reveal a 6 of clubs. “Bust.”

The men around the table erupt in raucous laughter and shouts as the dealer collects the pile of chips Barry had bet on this round, Barry himself turning an impressive shade of red at the humiliating loss.

“Better luck next time pal,” Silas says, bottom lip jutting out in mock sympathy. “Maybe don’t bet your whole fucking paycheck next time.”

The guy next to Silas barks a laugh, elbows him in the ribs. “Yeah, next time just be like Silas here and bet _two_ whole paychecks at once.”

Everyone except Silas laughs at that. Even Barry manages a hearty chuckle, appreciating the humiliation being shifted to someone else and off his back in the wake of his unfortunate loss.

“Shut up, Charlie,” says Silas.

Charlie blows him a kiss, winks playfully. “What about you, shy guy? You want to finally go for a round?”

Eli raises an eyebrow as all eyes are on him, points at himself with his index finger. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Silas says. “You been dead quiet this whole time. Why don’t you give it a spin?”

Eli rolls his cigarette between his fingers, blank stare leveled Charlie’s way. “Don’t have any chips on me.”

“Well, go get some,” Charlie says exasperatedly. “Christ’s sake, you’d think the boss’ boy would be a little smarter than this.”

“What can I say,” Eli shrugs. “He’s just into goddamn idiots.”

Silas grins devilishly. “It’s cause only a goddamn idiot would ever w—“

“Yeah, finish that fucking sentence,” Eli deadpans. “I dare you.”

“I don’t want to interrupt you boys,” Barry cuts in, “but, speaking of the boss.” He spares a pointed glance at the other side of the main floor, all of them turning to look and view the spectacle.

Swank’s yelling about something, fists all clenched at his sides, face red. Christ, he practically has steam billowing out of his ears.

Benny’s there too, yelling just as loud, gesturing wildly as he dishes out what Swank’s serving in equal measure. They have their disagreements, sure, but it’s been a long while since they fought like this. They’re two of the most self-absorbed, stubborn people Eli knows, so it’s only natural that they’d butt heads, but Christ, this is something else, even for them.

Swank seems to notice all the attention they’ve gathered and nods at Benny, and he turns to see all eyes on them and scowls. “What are you losers staring at?” Benny shouts. “Ain’t you all got jobs to do?” He clenches his jaw, shoves his fists in his pockets, and storms away, heading straight for the elevator to the presidential.

Eli practically jumps from his seat and hurries to catch up with him, calling his name to get him to stop, but Benny just keeps on going, plowing straight through the crowd of people.

He barely makes it to the elevator in time, just managing to stop the door from closing with an outstretched arm. “Hey,” he breathes, reaching out for Benny as he clambers into the elevator car. “What’s wrong, babe?”

Benny rakes his hands through his hair, grabbing fistfuls with shaking hands. “Fuck, baby, that punk gets me so angry sometimes.”

Eli purses his lips and nods, strokes Benny’s cheeks with gentle fingers. “Want to talk about it?”

Benny sighs, leans back against the cool metal of the car’s walls, just as it arrives to their suite. “Let’s go inside, take a load off, yeah?”

Eli raises an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

He laughs dryly at that, reaches out a hand to lace his fingers with Eli’s. “Come on,” he says, pulling Eli with him into the sitting room and down onto one of the couches.

Eli drops into the cushions with him, rests his head on Benny’s shoulder, their fingers still intertwined. “So,” he says, breaking the silence. “What’s going on?”

“Right,” Benny says. “So, there I were, having a nice conversation with Swank, yeah? I tell him that it was nice seeing you out there with the boys, how I was happy you was having some fun.”

Fun’s a… _generous_ word for what he was having out there, but he doesn’t tell Benny that. “And?”

“And then,” Benny continues, “he makes some comment about how you’ll blend in or something and—anyways, to make a long story slightly shorter, he told me he’s going to send you to Reno to scope out some new casino there.”

Eli lifts his head from Benny’s shoulder to meet his eyes. “That’s why you’re mad?”

“Well… yeah,” Benny says, brows furrowed. “He can’t just make plans to send you away without asking you first. Besides,” he scoffs, “ _Reno_? Talk about a hellhole.”

Eli shrugs. “I don’t know. Might be fun.”

Benny turns his whole body to look down at Eli, his expression blank. “You actually want to go?”

“I didn’t say that.” He shrugs again. “Just might be an interesting time is all.”

Benny heaves a sigh, frowns. “I mean, if you want to go, baby, I’m not going to stop you. Not like I could stop you, even if I wanted to.”

“Why don’t you just come with?” Eli asks. “It’s a good week and a half, two week hike at least. The company would be nice. Especially if it’s you.”

Benny smiles sheepishly, rubs the back of his neck. “You ain’t upset that Swank made plans for you to go all the way out there without even asking what you thought about that?”

“Nah,” Eli says. “Ain’t the first time Swank’s done that shit and it probably won’t be the last.” He bends down to kiss Benny’s hand, holds it between his own two. “I know you worry, but I ain’t going anywhere, Ben.”

“I know, baby, I know,” says Benny. “I’m sorry for getting all worked up. I know you can take care of yourself out there, I just…” He sighs. “You’re the toughest, strongest person I know, Eli. So, every time you come home with new scars and broken bones it just reminds me how hard it is out there and how even the toughest son of a bitch can get beaten down by the Mojave.”

“You scared I’m going to leave one day and not come home?”

The silence that follows is enough of an answer.

“Look, I… it’s rought out there,” he says. “I know that. But, I’ve come back from a lot, Benny. Some desert ain’t going to stop me from coming home to you. It hasn’t yet and it’s never going to.” He slides a hand around the back of Benny’s neck, pulls him close. “I’m always coming home.”

Benny hums. “That a promise?”

“Fuck yeah, it’s a promise,” Eli whispers, and he kisses Benny, soft and sweet. “Now,” he says, patting Benny's cheek affectionately, “pack a bag, babe, because we got a long way to go.”

* * *

“Benny.”

…Nothing.

“Hey,” Eli says. “Benny, come on.”

…Still. Nothing.

Eli rolls his eyes, leans in to plant a soft kiss on Benny’s cheek. “You going to give up the act yet?”

Benny grumbles, shakes his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Eli smirks, runs his fingers through Benny’s hair. “Come on, babe. Time to get ready.”

“But baby, it’s so early,” he slurs, voice still thick with sleep. “Can’t we just stay in bed a while longer?”

“You’re the one who wanted to get the early start.”

Benny groans melodramatically, buries his face into the pillow. “Yeah, but I was an idiot, baby. Benny don’t do early mornings.”

“Well, you’re already awake,” Eli says. “Might as well just get up, Ben.”

He heaves a loud sigh, like he’s finally resigning himself to his fate, and sits upright, rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Let’s get this goddamn show on the goddamn road.”

“Benny, babe, I’m already good to go,” Eli laughs, gesturing at his dressed form. “The goddamn show is just waiting for you.”

“Well, guess the goddamn show is just going to have to be a little patient, ain’t it?” Benny asks. “This cat has a look to maintain, baby, I can’t just roll out of bed and get out there to face the day.”

Eli hums, pulls Benny in for a kiss that leaves them both a little dazed, a little breathless. Part of Eli worried that maybe this would be weird, being intimate with Benny, loving Benny, being with Benny, but Christ, nothing in his life has ever felt this good, this natural, this _right_. The only weird thing about this is how long it took Eli to realize that he’s truly, madly, deeply in love with Benny.

In hindsight, it’s so obvious. All the clues, the hints, the signs, they’re all there, plain as day. But, it’s okay. They took their time getting here, and it’s okay. They’re here now, together, and that’s all that matters.

* * *

Nearly an hour passes before they’re finally ready to leave, a large portion of that time spent on Benny primping and perfecting his hair, then insisting they stop for coffee and breakfast downstairs. The sun is just peaking over the horizon as they make their way through the Strip, down and out through Freeside, side by side.

Mojave sunrises really are something. Never stopped or bothered to appreciate them before, but he finds himself doing that with lots of things now.

They’re nearly to the gate, the last thing separating them and the wasteland, when Eli stops, scratches at his stubbly cheeks. “Hey,” he says softly. “Wait a second, Benny.”

Benny raises an eyebrow, but obliges, stopping in his tracks. “Something wrong, baby?”

“No, no, just…” he shrugs. “You sure you want to go? You can stay if you want.”

“Baby,” Benny smiles, lifts a hand to cup Eli’s cheek. “I’m sure. I wouldn’t miss this for all the caps in Vegas.”

Eli returns Benny’s smile with one of his own, a wide, toothy grin spread across his face. “Yeah?” he asks, voice soft.

“Course,” says Benny. “Ain’t no place I’d rather be than here with you, right by your side.”

Eli doesn’t believe in destiny or soul mates or fucking… kindred spirits or whatever, but this is just so… right. Whatever he may or may not believe, he knows this is where he’s supposed to be, right here, right now, with Benny at his side.

Maybe things won’t always be perfect, maybe they’ll argue, maybe they’ll disagree—lord knows they’re both stubborn as hell—but, all of that, it’s okay. They’ll make it. They’ve already gotten through so much shit together, he knows they can get through anything life might throw their way.

Besides, maybe they don’t need perfect. What they’ve got, it might not be perfect, but it’s perfect for _them_ , and that’s enough.

Eli meets Benny’s eyes, shoulders his bag. “Come on,” he says. “We got a lot of road to cover today.”

Benny smiles. “I’m right beside you, baby.”


End file.
